Of Love. There is a fragrant blossom, that maketh glad the garden of the heart; Its root lieth deep: it is delicate, yet lasting, as the lilac crocus of autumn: Loneliness and thought are the dews that water it morn and even; Memory and Absence cherish it, as the balmy breathings of the south: Its sun is the brightness of affection, and it bloometh in the borders of Hope; Its companions are gentle flowers, and the briar withereth by its side. I saw it budding in beauty; I felt the magic of its smile; The violet rejoiced beneath it, the rose stooped down and kissed it; And I thought some cherub had planted there a truant flower of Eden, Р As a bird bringeth foreign seeds, that they may flourish in a kindly soil. I saw, and asked not its name; I knew no language was so wealthy, Though every heart of every clime findeth its echo within. And yet what shall I say? Is a sordid man capable of Love? Hath a seducer known it? Can an adulterer perceive it? Or he that seeketh strange women, can he feel its purity? Or he that changeth often, can he know its truth? Longing for another's happiness, yet often destroying its own; Chaste, and looking up to God, as the fountain of tenderness and joy : Quiet, yet flowing deep, as the Rhine among rivers; Lasting, and knowing not change-it walketh with Truth and Sincerity. Love-what a volume in a word, an ocean in a tear, For it is that native poetry springing up indigenous to The heart's own-country music thrilling all its chords, The story without an end that angels throng to hear, The word, the king of words, carved on Jehovah's heart! Go, call thou snake-eyed malice mercy, call envy honest praise, Count selfish craft for wisdom, and coward treachery for prudence, Do homage to blaspheming unbelief as to bold and free philosophy, And estimate the recklessness of license as the right attribute of liberty,— But with the world, thou friend and scholar, stain not pure name; this Nor suffer the majesty of Love to be likened to the meanness of desire: For love is no more such, than seraphs' hymns are discord, And such is no more Love, than Etna's breath is summer. Love is a sweet idolatry enslaving all the soul, A mighty spiritual force, warring with the dullness of matter, An angel-mind breathed into a mortal, though fallen yet how beautiful! All the devotion of the heart in all its depth and grand eur. Behold that pale geranium, pent within the cottage window; How yearningly it stretcheth to the light its sickly longstalked leaves, How it straineth upward to the sun, coveting his sweet influences, How real a living sacrifice to the god of all its worship! Such is the soul that loveth; and so the rose-tree of affection Bendeth its every leaf to look on those dear eyes, Its every blushing petal basketh in their light, And all its gladness, all its life, is hanging on their love. If the love of the heart is blighted, it buddeth not again : If that pleasant song is forgotten, it is to be learnt no more: Yet often will thought look back, and weep over early affection; And the dim notes of that pleasant song will be heard as a reproachful spirit, Moaning in Eolian strains over the desert of the heart, Where the hot siroccos of the world have withered its one oasis. Of Marriage. Seek a good wife of thy God, for she is the best gift of his providence; Yet ask not in bold confidence that which he hath not promised: Thou knowest not his good will:-be thy prayer then submissive thereunto; And leave thy petition to his mercy, assured that He will deal well with thee. If thou art to have a wife of thy youth, she is now living on the earth; Therefore think of her, and pray for her weal; yea, though thou hast not seen her. They that love early become like-minded, and the tempter toucheth them not: They grow up leaning on each other, as the olive and the vine. Youth longeth for a kindred spirit, and yearneth for a heart that can commune with his own; |