No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine, And my soul felt her destiny divine; And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heaven-born, the soul a heavenward course must hold; Beyond the visible world she soars to seek (For what delights the sense is false and weak) Ideal form, the universal mould. The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes: nor will he lend His heart to ought which doth on time depend. ’Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true _love_, Which kills the soul: _love_ betters what is best Even here below, but more in heaven above. _Wordsworth, from Michael Angelo._ O _Love_! thy essence is thy purity! Breathe one unhallowed breath upon thy flame, And it is gone for ever, and but leaves A sullied vase--its pure light lost in shame. _Miss Landon._ _Love_ Thee! Oh, clad in human lowliness,-- In whom each heart its mortal kindred knows,-- Our flesh, our forms, our tears, our pains, our woes; A fellow-wanderer o’er earth’s wilderness! _Love_ Thee!--whose very word but breathes to bless! Through Thee, from long-seal’d lips, glad language flows; The blind their eyes, that laugh with light, unclose; And babes, unchid, Thy garment’s hem caress. I see thee--doomed by bitterest pangs to die, Up the sad hill, with willing footsteps move, With scorge, and taunt, and wanton agony; While the cross nods, in hideous gloom, above, Though all--even there--be radiant Deity! Speechless I gaze, and my whole soul is _Love_. _Milman._ They err, who deem _love’s_ brightest hour in blooming youth is flown: Its purest, tenderest, holiest power in after life is known, When passions chastened and subdued, to riper years are given, And earth, and earthly things, are viewed in light that breaks from Heaven. _Bernard Barton._ Music of the bough that waves, As the wind plays lightly o’er; Music of the stream that laves Pebbly marge or rocky shore; Sweet your melody to me, Singing to the soul--the tone Exceeds by far the minstrelsy Of halls wherein bright harpers shone; For ye attune His praise who made The wondrous perfect frame we view, Each hill, and plain, and leafy shade, And yon fair canopy of blue: Ye seem to sing,--“How great the arm Of that high God who reigns above; Him worship! but without alarm; His dearest, best known name is _Love_.” _James Edmeston._ All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the _Love_ of God, which shall live and last for aye. * * * * *