Poems (Hoffman)/The Song of Hope
THE SONG OF HOPE
Why do you sing, blithe meadow-lark, in joyous cheerful peals?
Night has just torn his mantle dark, from off the waving fields,
The winds but bear your notes away
Where last year's tenements decay;
Soon, soon, shall fade the dawning day, and perish in the gloaming.
Night has just torn his mantle dark, from off the waving fields,
The winds but bear your notes away
Where last year's tenements decay;
Soon, soon, shall fade the dawning day, and perish in the gloaming.
But still you sing, nor count the cost of morning's fleeting hours
Nor deem that all your notes are lost among the heedless flowers;
Your last year's nestlings all have flown
They carol now in parts unknown,
But still you warble here alone, as one who knows no sorrow.
Nor deem that all your notes are lost among the heedless flowers;
Your last year's nestlings all have flown
They carol now in parts unknown,
But still you warble here alone, as one who knows no sorrow.
Go back again, thou joyous one, go to thy last year's nest.
Alas! thy work is all undone, oh, art thou not unblest!
Where swung thy cozy domicile
A few loose straws are left to tell,
While those who in it used to dwell have flown away forever.
Alas! thy work is all undone, oh, art thou not unblest!
Where swung thy cozy domicile
A few loose straws are left to tell,
While those who in it used to dwell have flown away forever.
But still unmindful of your loss, you trill in joyous glee,
Your music floats the fields across, from sorrow ever free;
No thought of vanished Summer-times,
No longings linked with other climes,
No toll of sorrow's mournful chimes, disturbs its sprightly measure.
Your music floats the fields across, from sorrow ever free;
No thought of vanished Summer-times,
No longings linked with other climes,
No toll of sorrow's mournful chimes, disturbs its sprightly measure.
Oh! in thy breast a harp is hung that sorrow cannot bind,
The song it evermore has sung, was not for grief designed;
It knows no measure of despair,
Complaint can find no echo there;
It has no chords for grief and care, for hope is all its being.
The song it evermore has sung, was not for grief designed;
It knows no measure of despair,
Complaint can find no echo there;
It has no chords for grief and care, for hope is all its being.
Why do you sing, oh heart of mine, and join the lark's glad strain,
Your little day will soon decline to never dawn again;
Your last year's joys lie cold and dead
And stir not from their silent bed
And stalking dimly in their stead, a thousand disappointments?
Your little day will soon decline to never dawn again;
Your last year's joys lie cold and dead
And stir not from their silent bed
And stalking dimly in their stead, a thousand disappointments?
Oh! in your inmost, secret shrine a deathless harp is hung,
Its music is forever thine, by other lyres unsung;
It holds no phantom in its scope,
No dark foreboding, there, may grope;
'Tis timed and tuned by deathless hope and hope is all its being.
Its music is forever thine, by other lyres unsung;
It holds no phantom in its scope,
No dark foreboding, there, may grope;
'Tis timed and tuned by deathless hope and hope is all its being.
Trill, happy lark, though ruined lies the home once all your pride
Though time all loving skill defies, it yet shall be defied;
Chant o'er the wrecks of stern decay
Hope's happiest, holiest prophecy,
The wind may bear your notes away but mine shall sound forever.
Though time all loving skill defies, it yet shall be defied;
Chant o'er the wrecks of stern decay
Hope's happiest, holiest prophecy,
The wind may bear your notes away but mine shall sound forever.