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Poem by Janet Little

To Hope


Hail meek-eyd maid! of matchless worth!
Our best companion here on earth;
  To thee sole powr is givn,
T illume our dark and dreary way,
As through lifes mazy path we stray,
  And bend our steps to heavn.
Tis thine to smooth the rugged vale,
  To stem the trickling tear;
Thy whispers, as the spicy gale,
  Do drooping travllers cheer.
    Incline thou, to shine now
      Upon me as I go;
    Thy favour shall ever
      Alleviate my wo.


Thy presence calms the raging seas,
And to the throbbing breast gives ease
  Amid the tempests howl,
When waves appear as mountains high,
When swelling surges dash the sky,
  And foaming billows roll;
When danger, with uplifted hand,
  Proclaims th approaching doom,
Thou gently dost the stroke withstand,
  And dissipates the gloom.
    When caring, despairing,
      And deeming all as lost,
    Thy rays will portray still
      The long expected coast.


Thou animates the heros flame;
To him presents a deathless name
  In the ensanguind field:
Thou dost his nerves with valour brace,
Bids him, with bold undaunted face,
  Destructive weapons wield.
Wars trumpet, breathing rude alarms,
  Strikes terror all around;
Thy voice of fame, and honours charms,
  Outvies the direful sound.
    When falling, appalling
      The tumults wild increase,
    On wings then, thou brings then
      The harbinger of peace.


Thy power elates the students views;
The paths of science kindly strews
  With never-fading flowrs.
Deprivd of thee, how lovers mourn
Dejected, restless and forlorn,
  In unfrequented bowrs!
Attending still on Hymens rites,
  Thou decorates the chain;
Thy smile the sprightly maid invites
  And lures the youthful swain;
    Still easing, and pleasing,
      When stern misfortune stares,
    Mid losses, and crosses,
      Thou lightens all their cares.


From lifes fair dawn to liart eve,
We all thy flattring tales believe,
  Enamourd of thy art:
Thy soft and salutary voice
Gives birth to unexpected joys,
  And soothes the bleeding heart;
And even at our latest hour,
  When earthly comforts fly,
Thou dost, by a superior Powr,
  Deaths terrors all defy.
    Not grieving, when leaving
      This scene of dole and care,
    But viewing, pursuing
      A more exalted sphere.

Janet Little

Janet Little's other poems:
  1. Upon a Young Ladys Leaving Loudoun Castle
  2. The Fickle Pair
  3. On Happiness
  4. To a Lady, a Patroness of the Muses, on Her Recovery from Sickness
  5. To the Public

Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • John Keats To Hope ("WHEN by my solitary hearth I sit")
  • Thomas Hood To Hope ("Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp")
  • Thomas Gent To Hope (" How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue")
  • Mathilde Blind To Hope ("OH come, thou power divine")

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