The glory of your own? or concentrate On mine its radiant life?—on mine! that holds As yet, in calm reserve, the boundless wealth Of tenderness its Maker taught to it. Speak! shall we part, and go our separate ways, Each with a half life in a burning soul, Like two wild clouds, whose meeting would evoke The electric flame pent up within their bosoms, That, parted, weep their fiery hearts away, Or waste afar—and darken into death? Speak! do we part? or are we _one_ forever? —— Since I must love thee—since a weird wild fate Impels me to thy heart against my will— Do thou this justice to the heart I yield: _Be its ideal_. Let it not blush to love. Bid it not trail its light and glorious wings Through the dull dust of earth, with downcast eyes And drooping brow, where Shame and Grief usurp Calm Honor’s throne!—be noble, truthful, brave; Love Honor more than Love, and more than me; Be all thou wert ere the world came between Thee and thy God. Hear’st thou my spirit pleading With suppliant, claspéd hands to thine, dear love? Degrade her not, but let thy stronger soul Soar with her to the seraph’s realm of light. She yields to thee; do with her as thou wilt. She shuts her wings in utter weariness, For she has wandered all night long astray, And found no rest—no fountain of sweet love, Save such as mocked her with a maddening thirst. She asks of thine repose, protection, peace; Implores thee with wild tears and passionate prayers To give her shelter through the night of Time, And lead her home at morn; for long ago She lost her way. Ah! thou may’st give, instead Of that sweet boon she asks, if so thou wilt, Wild suffering, madness, shame, self-scorn, despair! But thou wilt not! thine eyes—thy glorious eyes— Are eloquent with generous love and faith, And through thy voice a mighty heart intones Its rich vibrations, while thou murmurest low All lovely promises, and precious dreams For the sweet Future. So, I trust thee, love, And place my hand in thine, for good or ill. —— Do not my soul that wrong! translate not thus The spirit-words my eyes are saying to thee: I would not fetter that rich heart of thine, Save by the perfect liberty I give it, For all God’s worlds of glory. Go thou forth— Be free as air! Love all the good and pure; Cherish all love that can ennoble thee; Unfold thy soul to all sweet ministries, That it may grow toward heaven, as a flower Drinks dew and light, and pays them back in beauty. And if—ah heaven! these tears are love’s, not grief’s— And if some higher ministry than mine, Or some more genial nature, bless thee more, Wrong not thyself, or me, or love, or truth, By shrinking weakly from thy destiny.