Yet Eva listened; for her steps had trod, Fearless of clouds that rose her pathway o’er, Closer than some do to the walks of God; And, in her own warm heart, she ever bore A flowing urn, from whence a balm was shed O’er sorrows wounds, where’er her footsteps led. There had arisen from all created things An anthem and an incense, and they came, Rousing in her own breast those hidden springs, With a mysterious power, that she might name Fragrance, or motion, beauty, light, or tone— So seemed each exquisite sense to blend in one. “O, life is bliss!” she murmured. “Let each breath Rise with a warm thank-offering from my heart To Him who gave it; the blue heavens beneath, All things a brightness and a joy impart; And earth’s harmonious melodies have been Rivaled but by the voice they wake within. “The skies bend fondly o’er me; the pure air Steals to my temples with a holy kiss; The bright stars watch me with a kindly care; And flowers, and streams, and birds, and winds express Their mingled joy, around, beneath, above, In tones whose chorus and whose freight is Love. “Love! Life’s gemmed key-stone! being’s single source! Creative power, that makes all creatures one— That speeds the rivers in their onward course, To bless the valleys that they gleam upon— That bids the fond birds woo the answering flowers, And dallying breezes kiss the leafy bowers. “They tell us of the shadow and the thorn, And care and grief—and, though the pearly dews Of life’s young matin still my feet adorn, _I_ have found thorns—the guardians of the rose I plucked unharmed—and at their terrors laughed, So light a touch could blunt the barbéd shaft. “Free potions have I drank of being’s cup, And found no bitterness; the sparkling tide Hath grown but brighter as I quaffed it up, And if rank weeds have sprung its rim beside, Or serpents risen, its drops contain a spell To blast the weed, or crush the monster fell. “Yet one thing lack I. I have sought the flow Of kindly sympathies, and vainly sought— Though human hearts are with me here below To which my own hath called, they answer not: Kind tones I’ve met, fond eyes have round me shone, But my soul’s holiest founts have gushed alone. “Fair, dove-eyed children at my feet have lain Their young affections, as an offering pure; And when I wipe the clammy brow of pain Pale lips will bless me: gentle smiles may lure The gay or sad around me; and I’ve yearned To breathe to them the speech my heart had learned—