A heart that, firm as some embattled tower
Itself for her, her in itself reveres,
For her rejoices in its lasting power,
Conscious alone, when she herself appears;
Feels itself freer in so sweet a thrall,
And only beats to give her thanks in all.
The power of loving, and all yearning sighs
For love responsive were effaced and drowned;
While longing hope for joyous enterprise
Was formed, and rapid action straightway found
If love can e'er a loving one inspire,
Most lovingly it gave me now its fire;
And 'twas through her!—an inward sorrow lay
On soul and body, heavily oppressed;
To mournful phantoms was my sight a prey,
In the drear void of a sad tortured breast;
Now on the well-known threshold Hope hath smiled,
Herself appeareth in the sunlight mild.
Unto the peace of God, which, as we read,
Blesseth us more than reason e'er hath done,
Love's happy peace would I compare indeed,
When in the presence of the dearest one.
There rests the heart, and there the sweetest thought,
The thought of being hers is checked by nought.
In the pure bosom doth a yearning float,
Unto a holier, purer, unknown Being
Its grateful aspirations to devote,
The Ever-Nameless then unriddled seeing;
We call it: piety!—such blest delight
I feel a share in, when before her sight.
Before her sight, as 'neath the sun's hot ray,
