Men talk of the pleasures of hope! have they never felt the misery of hope deferred--the pang of hope crushed? Have they ever estimated the amount of misery chargeable to this self-same hope? Who fathers Ambition, with all its woes, attendant and consequent? Hope. How many dream away their lives in listless vacuity, _hoping_ all the while, that _something will turn up_! What injuries has Hope not done to youth? Then, when men ought to be training themselves for the stern realities of life--when they should prepare their provisions for its stormy voyage, Hope whispers that the course is clear--the ocean calm--the wind favorable. How many commence enterprizes, which can end in nothing but disappointment, and undertake duties, to the performance of which their abilities are inadequate, spirited on the while by Hope, the traitor, who stimulates his unconscious victims to mount round after round of the ladder, until, with a whoop and a laugh, he tears the veil from their eyes, and permits them to see and to _feel_ that they are high, not on the temple, but on the _pillory_ of Fame! ‘Hope sweetens labor’--does he? ‘Thank you, madam, I prefer it without sugar.’ Hold! I revoke--I take back somewhat that I have said. Hope--thou art an imp, but still a _playful_ imp--full of mischief, but such a lively, laughing, little, curly-headed rogue, with such a comical look in the corner of thine eye, that for my life I cannot lose thee. I am inclined to say to thee, as one said to his dog--‘Ah! Tray! thou little knowest the mischief thou hast done.’ B. V. A RHYMING MOOD. There’s much of rapture in those favored hours, When o’er the mind a magic influence steals, That tunes to poetry and song its powers, And melts in music all a warm heart feels. There is a blissfulness that lifts the soul Far from the paltry cares and toils of time, In venting feelings that defy control, In lofty-measured strains or tuneful rhyme. The summer’s shower that wets the deep-seared earth, And decks her burning surface new in green, And saves the land from pestilence and dearth, Comes not more joyous than the spirit dream, Steals o’er the poet’s troubled soul, and gives The rapture-speaking voice and tone! He rises to another sphere--he lives For a short season in a world alone! Alone!--oh no! there Fancy groups her forms More lovely far than earth presents to view; More beauteous garniture that land adorns-- The skies assume a deeper, brighter blue. Manning. GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. IV.