Fame’s a liar in the nation!
    Love hath oft a wayward wing;
Still, hence seek not for occasion
To impugn Hope’s sweet persuasion—
    “The flowers will come again with spring;
And in the world-wide way we re going
Streams of pure good yet are flowing—
    Hark! I hear them murmuring.”

Friendship turns, itself denying
    Even Truth the heart may wring;
Still, though trust be daily dying,
Listen still to Hope replying—
    “The flowers will come again with spring:
And in the blasted way we re going
There’s yet one healing current flowing—
    Hark! I hear it murmuring.”

All is dream-like, all off wingeth,
    All that time and tide doth bring;
Then cold Death his black pall bringeth,
Still what matter while Hope singeth—
    “Lo! heaven is one eternal spring!
And midway through it rolls a river,
Wherein to bathe is health for ever—
    Hark! I hear it murmuring.”