Bless love and hope. Full many a withered year Whirled past us, eddying to its chill doomsday; And clasped together where the blown leaves lay, We long have knelt and wept full many a tear. Yet lo! one hour at last, the Spring's compeer, Flutes softly to us from some green byeway:* Those years, those tears are dead, but only they:— Bless love and hope, true soul; for we are here. Cling heart to heart; nor of this hour demand Whether in very truth, when we are dead, Our hearts shall wake to know Love's golden head Sole sunshine of the imperishable land; Or but discern, through night's unfeatured scope, Scorn-fired at length the illusive eyes of Hope.