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To live, however hard their lot,

And carefully shirk death, God wot!

The wretched thrall, in dungeon dark,

Munches poor oaten bread life’s spark

To keep within him, and despair

Repels, though filth and vermin wear

His wretched body: still doth hope

Of freedom give him strength to cope

With direst miseries, trusting still

By happy chance or guileful skill

To win deliverance. He likewise,

Whose soul in love’s sweet bondage lies,

Hath hope at last to heal his woe,

And thence such light and comfort grow,

As give him grace to bear the smart

That love inflicts, with constant heart.

Through Hope it is that lovers learn

To count their misery nought, and spurn

Dark-eyed Despair, assured each blow

And stripe they suffer but foreshow

A hundred joys, when they shall be

Made happy in love’s victory.

O blessed Hope that through the strife

Of years gives savour to the life

Of lovers.

Gentle Hope is kind.

And never laggeth far behind

A brave man’s footsteps till the end

Of life approacheth, but doth lend

Comfort and light, although he be

Bowed to the earth with misery.

Nay, e’en the wretch who feels the rope

Around his neck, still clings to Hope.