Hope that eternal flame,
that was built so men could  see,
a first bud after winters rain .,
and blossoms returning to the trees .

For when we close our eyes when deaths daughter calls near ,
‘‘Tis it not angels song is all I hear ?

Awake awake O morning cloud ,
that passes hills and seas and knows no bounds ,
then like I without a faint heart will run like a deer that
Leaps and bounds ,
through fields and meadows ,
springs and streams .

And if my hope is dashed as driftwood moves upon the sea ,
I shall cling to that driftwood untill I see ,
The light of Portus in front of me.
Be it not man that we should trust ,
could ever shine such light in hope of us ?
when evening clouds are turned to night ,
at least we shall gaze on such a shimmering light.