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Has Hope, like the bird in the story, 
That flitted from tree to tree 
With the talisman’s glittering glory— 
Has Hope been that bird to thee ? 
On branch after branch alighting, 
The gem did she still display, 
And, when nearest and most inviting, 
Then waft the fair gem away! 
If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, 
When Sorrow herself looked bright; 
If thus the fond hope has cheated, 
That led thee along so light; 
If thus, too, the cold world wither 
Each feeling that once was dear ;— 
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither, 
I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear. 
Moore. 
The blind man groping cautiously his way 
Along the crowded pavement of a city, 
Has natural claims upon our tender pity. 
Whether ’twere night, or whether it were day, 
Would seem to make small difference to him 
Whose days and nights alike are ever dim; 
Yet still the tramp of human feet, and hum 
Of human voices, sweetly fill his ear; 
The surgings of the tides of life appear 
Like the. deep sounds that from the ocean come 
At midnight to the listener. Pity’s glance 
Upon his form instinctively we throw; 
And while some sadness clouds our countenance, 
To God we pray to save us from such wo. 
MacKellar. 
