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We tremble even in our happiness; Hurried and dim, the unknown hours press Heavy with care or grief, that none may ever guess.

The future is more present than the past: For one look back a thousand on we cast, And Hope doth ever Memory outlast.

For Hope say Fear—Hope is a timid thing, Fearful, and weak, and born in suffering; At least, such hope as human life can bring.

Its home, it is not here, it looks beyond; And, while it carries an enchanter's wand, Its spells are conscious of their earthly bond.

used often to go of an evening and pass an hour with Sir Jasper Meredith, who was always glad to see her, and always admitted her into his library. A painter might have taken the scene for some laboratory of the olden time, occupied by an Italian