a bed of sickness, there sits this cherub for ever smiling. Hark! how loud the winds rave, they roar through the thin walls; hunger awakes; pallid sickness glances on the dying embers of the scanty fire; the lamp flickers o'er the ashy countenances of that squalid group; Madness looks in and peers around for its victim; Hope darts forth and defies his entrance-for a moment they view each other— the white lip of Madness threatens and retires. Hope is part of the treasury of a sound mind; the philosopher well knows the rapid changes of time; the inability of man to rule for time; and that, except he sustains a firm and dignified address in the hour of danger, he becomes prey to the meanest of foes. Hope is the brightest flag in the battle of life. It brings riches to the poor, which never fade. It is the lover's staff. The wild winds blow through the curls of the little sailor boy, whilst wrestling with the tattered sails: he hears the yet hoarser voice of the bold captain; but through the driving blasts he sees a sweet cherub darting from rope to rope, chaunting sweetest melody of future joy; and he hopes the rolling seas will bring him to his home. Hope is a precious stone which glitters in many of the dark paths of life. Young says:— "Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here."

Campbell says:—

Audacious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe:

Won by their sweets, in nature's languid hour,
The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower:
There as the wild bee murmurs on the wing,
What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring;
What viewless forms th' Æolian organ play,

And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away.