16. There is, however, one realm of creation yet grander and nobler than that visible to the eye of the body. Higher than the visible stands the invisible; and when the soul turns from the contemplation of the outward universe to the contemplation of the inward universe, to the contemplation of affection and aspiration, its flight must of necessity be higher. Hence the high rank of those strains of song which the soul gives forth when stirred by affection, by love to the children of God, whether they be addressed by Wordsworth to a butterfly, by Burns to a mouse, or by Byron to a friend. You have in English eight brief lines which for this kind of song are a model from their simplicity, tenderness, and depth. LINES IN AN ALBUM. As over the cold, sepulchral stone Some name arrests the passer-by, Thus when thou viewest this page alone May mine attract thy pensive eye. And when these lines by thee are read Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead, And think my heart is buried here! 17. It is this song of love for one's kind which makes Burns, Heine, and Goethe pre-eminently the singers of the human heart when it finds itself linked to one other heart. And it is this strain which gives everlasting life to the following breath of Pushkin's muse: TO A FLOWER. A floweret, withered, odorless, In a book forgot I find; And already strange reflection Cometh into my mind. Bloomed where? When? In what spring? And how long ago? And plucked by whom? Was it by a strange hand, was it by a dear hand? And wherefore left thus here? Was it in memory of a tender meeting? Was it in memory of a fated parting? Was it in memory of a lonely walk In the peaceful fields, or in the shady woods? Lives he still? lives she still? And where is their nook this very day? Or are they too withered, Like unto this unknown floweret? 18. But from the love of the individual the growing soul comes in time to the love of the race; or rather, we only love an individual because he is to us the incorporation of some ideal. And let the virtue for which we love him once be gone, he may indeed keep our good will, but our love for him is clean gone out. This is because the soul in its ever-upward, heavenward flight alights with its love upon individuals solely in the hope of finding here its ideal, its heaven realized. But it is not given unto one person to fill the whole of a heaven-searching soul. Only the ideal, God alone, can wholly fill it. Hence the next strain to that of love for the individual is this longing for the ideal, a longing for what is so vague to most of us, a longing to which therefore not wholly inappropriately the name has been given of a longing for the Infinite. 19. And of this longing, Heine has given in eight lines immeasurably pathetic expression: