LOVE.
There's not a palsied ruin bows its patriarchal head,
Which has not rung with Triumph-shouts while Revel-banquets spread;
There's not a desolated hearth but where the cheerful pile
Of blazing logs has sparkled, and the cricket sung the while.
Which has not rung with Triumph-shouts while Revel-banquets spread;
There's not a desolated hearth but where the cheerful pile
Of blazing logs has sparkled, and the cricket sung the while.
The broken mandolin that lies in silent, slow decay,
Has quicken'd many a gentle pulse that heard its measures play;
The stagnant pool that taints and kills the mallow and the rush,
Has filter'd through the silver clouds and cool'd the rainbow's flush.
Has quicken'd many a gentle pulse that heard its measures play;
The stagnant pool that taints and kills the mallow and the rush,
Has filter'd through the silver clouds and cool'd the rainbow's flush.
There's not a dark, dull coffin-board but what has stood to bear
A swarm of summer warblers in the mellow greenwood air;
There's not a thread of cerecloth but has held its blossom-bells,
And swung the morning pearls about within the fragrant wells.
A swarm of summer warblers in the mellow greenwood air;
There's not a thread of cerecloth but has held its blossom-bells,
And swung the morning pearls about within the fragrant wells.
Love lurketh round us everywhere—it fills the great design;
It gives the soul its chosen mate—it loads the autumn vine;
It dyes the orchard branches red—it folds the worm in silk;
It rears the daisy where we tread, and bringeth corn and milk.
It gives the soul its chosen mate—it loads the autumn vine;
It dyes the orchard branches red—it folds the worm in silk;
It rears the daisy where we tread, and bringeth corn and milk.
Love stirreth in our beings all unbidden and unknown;
With aspirations leaping up, like fountains from the stone;
It prompts the great and noble deeds that nations hail with pride;
It moveth when we grieve to miss an old dog from our side.
With aspirations leaping up, like fountains from the stone;
It prompts the great and noble deeds that nations hail with pride;
It moveth when we grieve to miss an old dog from our side.
It bids us plant the sapling, to be green when we are gray,
It pointeth to the Future, and yet blesses while we stay;
It opens the Almighty page, where, though 'tis held afar,
We read enough to lure us on still higher than we are.
It pointeth to the Future, and yet blesses while we stay;
It opens the Almighty page, where, though 'tis held afar,
We read enough to lure us on still higher than we are.
The child at play upon the sward, who runs to snatch a flower,
With earnest passion in his glee that glorifies the hour—
The doting student, pale and meek, who looks into the night,
Dreaming of all that helps the soul to gauge Eternal might;—
With earnest passion in his glee that glorifies the hour—
The doting student, pale and meek, who looks into the night,
Dreaming of all that helps the soul to gauge Eternal might;—
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