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Page 37


Hope is protean in its form,
It ever doth asume now shape;
Seldom the same appeareth long,
But always a new form doth take.

Hope is a bright and glittering star,
High in our empyrean bright,
Its burning rays shine from afar,
And each one blesses its pure light.

In early life 'tis ever bright,
For then few clouds obscure our sky;
Soon old age comes - Hope's feeble light,
Is then obscure to the dim eye.

Hope is a wreath of airy smoke,
That vanishes away in the air;
Now seen now lost, the chearm soon broke,
That held the heart expectant there.

And yet within each human breast,
Though want may pinch, and care annoy,
Hope causes quiet peace, and rest,
Contentment, and a heartfelt joy.

signed "Bohotsub F...."