Hope is drawing pictures of a cottage with vines over the doorway, with some one standing at the gate, a sweet voice singing over the cradle.

Hope makes this home his; it rests the laborer and saves him from despair.
Multitudes working in the stithy and deep mines sweeten their labor and exalt their toil by aspiring thoughts.

Thinking of his little ones at home, the miner says: "My children shall not be as their father was; my drudgery is not for self, but for love's sake; the sweat of my brow is oil in the lamp of love; I will light it to-night on the sacred altar of home." Here is the secret of the rise and reign of the people.
This explains all man's progress in knowledge and culture.

As the fruits and flowers rise rank upon rank in response to the advancing summer, so all that is most refined and exalted in man's mind or heart bursts forth in new ideals, reforms, revolutions, in response to the revelation of that personal presence from whom all hope and aspiration incessantly proceed.
Hope's noble ministry hath grievous enemies.

Among these let us include a false use of the past.