“What, child,” he said, “love troubles you again? The rest of us poor mortals here, we fret Because we have too little of it, you Because you have too much. All girls are prone, Young girls, to deem their own love great and grand; But you, my child, find yours a very monster! It taxes all your powers to get it food; Yet nothing does unless to tramp on you. Now tell me, think you God it is, or man, Who makes our earthly love so troublesome?” “Why, man,” I said, “of course.” “Of course,” he said; “Then think you not it might be wise to get Some less of man in you, and more of God?— How fares it with your prayers?” “But yet,” I urged, “It scarcely seems my fault, this woe of mine.” “Seems not your fault?” he answer’d; “weigh the sides: One for you—three against you—which should yield?” “No; two for me,” I said,—“myself and Haydn; Besides, the other three have no such love.” “No love?” he said. “Is that a Christian mood? A modest, humble mood?—‘Have no such love’? How test we love, my child? It seems to me That love, like light, is tested by its rays. The halo crowns the saints, our lights of life, Just as the love they shed surrounds their souls. Where one is God’s, the strong soul serves the weak; The mother yields her powers to bless her babes; The man his powers, for her; and Christ for all. Ah, child, if you were strong! had love like theirs!” I sigh’d, “But how can one know whom to serve?” “How?—Put it thus:—your own wish? or your father’s?— How reads the decalogue?” “But,” answer’d I, “It seems as if some higher power there were That first should be obey’d—some power like God.” “Yes, child,” he said, “there is, of course, the Church: Of course, of course.” “Who is the Church?” I ask’d. And then he laugh’d: “Who?—What a question, child!— Why, read your prayer-book. Why, of course, the Church, Speaks through its ministers.” “If you speak then,” Inquired I, trembling,—“give advice to us, Is that the last resort?—must one obey?” “Why, that depends,” he said;—“but, dear me, child, You must not think us bears! We growl at times In sermons, eh?—But then, dear me, dear me, We would not eat our flock up, little lamb!— But come,” he added, “come; enough of this; How fares it with your prayers?” XXIV. Soon after that, One day, while troubled much, I met by chance, My Haydn, half restored, outside his room. For once, he sat alone; and, seeing me,—