Hope, Fear, and the Art of Delusional Survival

by Roger B. Rueda

Hope, that glittering little liar, has been the favorite muse of poets, dreamers, and desperate students staring at a blank exam paper. Thomas Oldham, in his "Ode to Hope," paints it as a celestial, all-powerful force, a kind of cosmic pep squad captain rallying humanity to keep moving forward despite life’s many injustices—like waking up early for work or discovering your favorite street food stand has vanished overnight.

Oldham describes Hope as a “cherub fair,” which immediately suggests an angelic, chubby-cheeked figure whispering promises of brighter tomorrows. But here’s the catch: for every time Hope lifts us up, it also sets us up for a spectacular fall. It tells us that if we send that risky text, we might get a loving reply instead of getting left on read. It promises that if we work hard, we will be rewarded—only to find out that the promotion goes to the boss’s nephew who can’t even format an email properly.

The poem indulges in the grand idea that Hope triumphs over Fear, as if life were a dramatic boxing match and Fear were some mustache-twirling villain, while Hope, all dressed in white, comes in swinging. But let’s be real—Fear is often the smarter contender. It keeps you from touching hot stoves, signing bad contracts, and making regrettable life choices at 2 AM. Meanwhile, Hope can be that overenthusiastic friend who convinces you to audition for a singing contest even when your vocal range is best suited for shouting at people in traffic.

And yet, despite its deceits, we cling to Hope like an addict to caffeine. Oldham’s poem celebrates Hope as the reason we push forward, even when life hands us lemons—and, let’s face it, sometimes those lemons are just rotten. He suggests that Hope invites “Fancy” to create “fair images of Happiness,” meaning that our minds, when guided by Hope, can imagine futures far better than our current realities. This explains why, every January, people make New Year’s resolutions with such conviction, as if they won’t be broken by February.

In the end, perhaps Hope isn’t a liar but a necessary illusion. Without it, we’d never apply for jobs we’re underqualified for, never fall in love despite the obvious risks, and certainly never believe that diet plans work. Oldham, in his elegant 19th-century way, reminds us that Hope keeps the world turning, even if it sometimes forgets to mention the fine print. After all, without Hope, even poets would run out of things to write about—and that would be the real tragedy.

Here’s the poem, freshly re-toasted and ready for your intellectual consumption—may it not give you a migraine.

Ode, To Hope
by Thomas Oldham

Thou Cherub fair! in whose blue, sparkling eye
New joys, anticipated, ever play;
Celestial Hope! with whose all-potent sway
The moral elements of life comply;
At thy melodious voice their jarrings cease,
And settle into order, beauty, peace;
How dear to memory that thrice-hallow'd hour
Which gave Thee to the world, auspicious Power!
Sent by thy parent, Mercy, from the sky,
Invested with her own all-cheering ray,
To dissipate the thick, black cloud of fate
Which long had shrouded this terrestrial state,
What time fair Virtue, struggling with despair,
Pour'd forth to pitying heaven her saddest soul in prayer:
Then, then she saw the brightening gloom divide,
And Thee, sweet Comforter! adown thy rainbow glide.
From the veil'd awful future, to her view
Scenes of immortal bliss thou didst disclose;
With faith's rapt eye she hail'd the vision true,
Spurn'd the base earth, and smiled upon her woes.

Thou Sovereign of the human soul
Whose influence rules without controul!
Unlike thy gloomy rival, Fear,
Abhorr'd, usurping Demon! who constrains
The shuddering spirit in his icy chains:
O Hope! be thou for ever near;
Keep the dread tyrant far away,
And all my willing, grateful bosom sway.
Each coming hour, that smiles with promise sweet,
In thy bright, spotless mirror let me greet,
And fondly passive to thy dictates, deem
Those smiling hours all heavenly as they seem:
Should changeful Fortune, hostile in her mood,
With storms and thunder arm her meteor-car,
And 'gainst me summon all her host to war,
Rouse thou, kind Power! the champion Fortitude,
With his well-tempered shield
To brave the threatening field.
Amid that scene of woes and mental strife
Let thy sweet, distant whisper soothe my ear,
Inviting Fancy far from mortal life,
To wander, blest, her own-created sphere.
Do thou her glowing thought possess,
And let her fairy pencil draw,
Free, and unconscious of thy law,
Fair images of Happiness;
Of that celestial form which lives imprest
Indelible, eternal, in thy breast.
E'en in the dead calm of the mind,
When Fancy sleeps, thou yet be kind;
O Hope! still let thy golden pinions play,
The unbreathing void to cheer, and shed a glancing ray!