It is Death that consoles—yea, and causes our lives; 'Tis the goal of this Life—and of Hope the sole ray, Which like a strong potion enlivens and gives Us the strength to plod on to the end of the day. And all through the tempest, the frost and the snows, 'Tis the shimmering light on our black sky-line; 'Tis the famous inn which the guide-book shows, Whereat one can eat, and sleep, and recline; 'Tis an angel that holds in his magic hands The sleep, which ecstatic dream commands, Who remakes up the beds of the naked and poor; 'Tis the fame of the gods, 'tis the granary blest, 'Tis the purse of the poor, and his birth-place of rest, To the unknown Heavens, 'tis the wide-open door.