But say, bright Hope, what numbers shall be found,
Worthy to sing thy praise: for that thy hand
Not only to the happiest life imparts
Its zest, its relish; but with tender care
Is stretch'd forth to assuage the wretch's woe,
To soothe the anguish of disease and pain;
And soften sad adversity's rough bed!
Thou only cheap and universal cure
Of human ills — of human sorrow, thou
Best comforter, and oft, full oft, alas!
The only comforter the wretched find!