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from us; we might no longer hope. Can the madman, as he clanks his chains,
hope? Can the wretch, led to the scaffold, who when he lays his head on the
block, marks the double shadow of himself and the executioner, whose
uplifted arm bears the axe, hope? Can the ship-wrecked mariner, who spent
with swimming, hears close behind the splashing waters divided by a shark
which pursues him through the Atlantic, hope? Such hope as theirs, we also
may entertain!
Old fable tells us, that this gentle spirit sprung from the box of Pandora,
else crammed with evils; but these were unseen and null, while all admired
the inspiriting loveliness of young Hope; each man's heart became her home;
she was enthroned sovereign of our lives, here and here-after; she was
deified and worshipped, declared incorruptible and everlasting. But like
all other gifts of the Creator to Man, she is mortal; her life has attained
its last hour. We have watched over her; nursed her flickering existence;
now she has fallen at once from youth to decrepitude, from health to
immedicinable disease; even as we spend ourselves in struggles for her
recovery, she dies; to all nations the voice goes forth, Hope is dead! We
are but mourners in the funeral train, and what immortal essence or
perishable creation will refuse to make one in the sad procession that
attends to its grave the dead comforter of humanity?
Does not the sun call in his light? and day
Like a thin exhalation melt away--
Both wrapping up their beams in clouds to be
Themselves close mourners at this obsequie.[3]
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