Poor stricken one! whose toil can gain,
And barely gain, the coarsest fare,
From bitter thoughts and words refrain;
Yield not to dark despair!
The blackest night that e'er was born
Was followed by a radiant morn;
Heed not the world's unfeeling scorn,
Nor think life's brittle thread to sever;
Hope on—hope ever!
Hope, though your sun is hid in gloom,
And o'er your care-worn, wrinkled brow,
Grief spreads his shadow—'tis the doom
That falls on many now.
Grim Poverty, with icy hand,
May bind to earth with ruthless band
Bright gifted ones throughout the land;
But struggle still that band to sever—
Hope on—hope ever!
Sit not and pine that FORTUNE led
Another on to grasp her wreath;
The same blue sky is o'er thy head,
The same green earth beneath,
The same bright angel-eyes look down,
Each night upon the humblest clown,
That sees the king with jeweled crown;
Of these, stern fate can rob thee never—
Hope on—hope ever!
What though the proud should pass thee by,
And curl their haughty lips with scorn;
Like thee, they soon must droop and die,
For all of woman born,
Are journeying to a shadowy land,
Where each devoid of pride must stand,
By hovering wings of angels' fanned;
There sorrow can assail thee never—
Hope on—hope ever!
Then plod along with tearless eye,
Poor son of toil! and ne'er repine,
The road through barren wastes may lie,
And thorns, as oft hath mine;
But there was One who came to earth,
Star-heralded at hour of birth,
Humble, obscure, unknown his worth,
Whose path was thornier far. Weep never!
Hope on—hope ever!