hope (n.)
- acceptation
- acquiescence
- ambition
- anticipation
- approach
- ardor
- assumption
- assurance
- assuredness
- belief
- catch
- certainty
- chance
- charity
- come
- conceivability
- conceivableness
- concupiscence
- confidence
- contingency
- conviction
- count
- craving
- credence
- credit
- credulity
- curiosity
- daydream
- dependence
- desideratum
- desire
- dread
- drive
- eagerness
- eventuality
- expectancy
- expectation
- expedient
- face
- faith
- fancy
- fantasy
- fortitude
- hankering
- justice
- libido
- likelihood
- lodestone
- longing
- look
- loom
- love
- magnet
- mind
- need
- optimism
- passion
- plan
- pleasure
- plot
- plum
- possibility
- possibleness
- potential
- potentiality
- prize
- probability
- project
- promise
- prospect
- prudence
- reception
- recourse
- reliance
- resort
- resource
- security
- stock
- store
- sureness
- surety
- temperance
- temptation
- think
- trophy
- trust
- urge
- wait
- want
- will
- wish
- yearning
hope (v.)
- ambition
- anticipate
- approach
- aspire
- await
- catch
- chance
- come
- confide
- contemplate
- count
- credit
- daydream
- desire
- dread
- drive
- envisage
- expect
- face
- fancy
- fantasy
- foresee
- foretell
- justice
- look
- loom
- love
- mind
- near
- need
- plan
- plot
- predict
- presume
- prize
- project
- promise
- prophesy
- prospect
- resort
- stock
- store
- think
- threaten
- trophy
- trust
- urge
- wait
- want
- will
- wish
All hope abandon, ye who enter here.
Hope against hope, and ask till ye receive.
Who against hope believed in hope.
To be of no church is dangerous. Religion, of which the rewards are distant, and which is animated only by faith and hope, will glide by degrees out of the mind unless it be invigorated and reimpressed by external ordinances, by stated calls to worship, and the salutary influence of example.
Hope for a season bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriek'd as Kosciusko fell!
Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward.
And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd,
That palter with us in a double sense:
That keep the word of promise to our ear
And break it to our hope.
The heart bowed down by weight of woe
To weakest hope will cling.
As soon
Seek roses in December, ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in critics.
Some novel power
Sprang up forever at a touch,
And hope could never hope too much
In watching thee from hour to hour.
Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.
Thus heavenly hope is all serene,
But earthly hope, how bright soe'er,
Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene,
As false and fleeting as 't is fair.
Hope elevates, and joy
Brightens his crest.
Exiles feed on hope.
So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,
Farewell remorse; all good to me is lost.
Evil, be thou my good.
Th' ethereal mould
Incapable of stain would soon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope
Is flat despair.
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
When I consider life, 't is all a cheat.
Yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.
To-morrow's falser than the former day;
Lies worse, and while it says we shall be blest
With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.
Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of a fool than of him.
He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.
I laugh, for hope hath happy place with me;
If my bark sinks, 't is to another sea.
Thus heavenly hope is all serene,
But earthly hope, how bright soe'er,
Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene,
As false and fleeting as 't is fair.
Through thick and thin, both over bank and bush,
In hope her to attain by hook or crook.
A high hope for a low heaven.
I laugh, for hope hath happy place with me;
If my bark sinks, 't is to another sea.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection.
The rose is fairest when 't is budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.
The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew,
And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast.
Is there no hope? the sick man said;
The silent doctor shook his head.
Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,
But leave, oh leave the light of Hope behind!
What though my winged hours of bliss have been
Like angel visits, few and far between.
And o'er them the lighthouse looked lovely as hope,—
That star of life's tremulous ocean.
Hope, like the gleaming taper's light,
Adorns and cheers our way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
Who lined himself with hope,
Eating the air on promise of supply.
Where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all.
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have:
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
The miserable have no other medicine,
But only hope.
None without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair,
But love can hope where reason would despair.
Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward.
Hope, of all ills that men endure,
The only cheap and universal cure.
The hope of all who suffer,
The dread of all who wrong.
O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse
Without all hope of day!
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head?
As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee.
As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,
The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea,
So dark when I roam in this wintry world shrouded,
The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection.
The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy.
Tho' lost to sight, to mem'ry dear
Thou ever wilt remain;
One only hope my heart can cheer,—
The hope to meet again.
Oh fondly on the past I dwell,
And oft recall those hours
When, wand'ring down the shady dell,
We gathered the wild-flowers.
Yes, life then seem'd one pure delight,
Tho' now each spot looks drear;
Yet tho' thy smile be lost to sight,
To mem'ry thou art dear.
Oft in the tranquil hour of night,
When stars illume the sky,
I gaze upon each orb of light,
And wish that thou wert by.
I think upon that happy time,
That time so fondly lov'd,
When last we heard the sweet bells chime,
As thro' the fields we rov'd.
Yes, life then seem'd one pure delight,
Tho' now each spot looks drear;
Yet tho' thy smile be lost to sight,
To mem'ry thou art dear.
Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope; who expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow,—attend to the history of Rasselas, Prince Of Abyssinia.
When I consider life, 't is all a cheat.
Yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.
To-morrow's falser than the former day;
Lies worse, and while it says we shall be blest
With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.
Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
Hope tells a flattering tale,
Delusive, vain, and hollow.
Ah! let not hope prevail,
Lest disappointment follow.
Prisoners of hope.
No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
To the last moment of his breath,
On hope the wretch relies;
And even the pang preceding death
Bids expectation rise.
Like strength is felt from hope and from despair.
Hope tells a flattering tale,
Delusive, vain, and hollow.
Ah! let not hope prevail,
Lest disappointment follow.
But Hope, the charmer, linger'd still behind.
For hope is but the dream of those that wake.
To the last moment of his breath,
On hope the wretch relies;
And even the pang preceding death
Bids expectation rise.
O welcome, pure-ey'd Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings!
Hope! thou nurse of young desire.
It is to hope, though hope were lost.
Through thick and thin, both over bank and bush,
In hope her to attain by hook or crook.
Full little knowest thou that hast not tride,
What hell it is in suing long to bide:
To loose good dayes, that might be better spent;
To wast long nights in pensive discontent;
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow.
. . . . . . . . .
To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares;
To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires;
To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to ronne,
To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.
Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end,
That doth his life in so long tendance spend!
Who will not mercie unto others show,
How can he mercy ever hope to have?
Tho' lost to sight, to mem'ry dear
Thou ever wilt remain;
One only hope my heart can cheer,—
The hope to meet again.
Oh fondly on the past I dwell,
And oft recall those hours
When, wand'ring down the shady dell,
We gathered the wild-flowers.
Yes, life then seem'd one pure delight,
Tho' now each spot looks drear;
Yet tho' thy smile be lost to sight,
To mem'ry thou art dear.
Oft in the tranquil hour of night,
When stars illume the sky,
I gaze upon each orb of light,
And wish that thou wert by.
I think upon that happy time,
That time so fondly lov'd,
When last we heard the sweet bells chime,
As thro' the fields we rov'd.
Yes, life then seem'd one pure delight,
Tho' now each spot looks drear;
Yet tho' thy smile be lost to sight,
To mem'ry thou art dear.
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
Hope to the end.
He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.
Hope tells a flattering tale,
Delusive, vain, and hollow.
Ah! let not hope prevail,
Lest disappointment follow.
Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.
Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law,
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw;
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,
A little louder, but as empty quite;
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage,
And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age.
Pleased with this bauble still, as that before,
Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings;
Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.
Napoleon's troops fought in bright fields, where every helmet caught some gleams of glory; but the British soldier conquered under the cool shade of aristocracy. No honours awaited his daring, no despatch gave his name to the applauses of his countrymen; his life of danger and hardship was uncheered by hope, his death unnoticed.
We have such hope, we use great plainness of speech.
It must be so,—Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'T is the divinity that stirs within us;
'T is Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
None without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair,
But love can hope where reason would despair.
While there is life there's hope, he cried.
O welcome, pure-ey'd Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings!
Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell!
For forms of government let fools contest;
Whate'er is best administer'd is best.
For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight;
His can't be wrong whose life is in the right.
In faith and hope the world will disagree,
But all mankind's concern is charity.
