It buddeth out in tender infancy, Like fresh-blown violets in the early spring, And giveth form and fashion to all life. For, by its character, it doth decide What elements and essences the soul Shall draw from contact with material things. As roses draw their blushes, lilies whiteness, Violets their azure, from the same dull earth, So Love extracts the sweetnesses of Life, And doth so mingle all within her crucible, That she creates the difference between Immortal souls. The fiery heart of youth, Full of high aims and generous purposes of good, Swells like the ocean-waves beneath the moon, And brooketh no restraint, until it finds Its living counterpart, and mergeth all It hath of truth, and manliness, and might, Into a second and a dearer self. So goes the world! and strong necessity Creates the law of action, whose results Join issue with the love of God himself. O jealous, wanton, ill-conceited World! How little dost thou understand the deep Significance and potency of Love! Thou hast defiled thyself with gross perversions, Till purity of love is but a jest, Or reckoned with the fantasies of fools. O, I would take thee, dear Humanity, And set thee face to face with perfect Love. She is thy mother. Love and Wisdom met United by Eternal Power. The worlds Sprang forth from chaos; and the love which brought Them into being doth sustain them still. The monad and the angel rest alike Within its all-embracing arms; and life, And death, with all that makes our mortal state, Are cradled at the footstool of this power. Then, sweet Humanity, thou favored child Of God, look up! An everlasting chain Doth bind thee to the mighty heart of all. Love’s labor never can be lost. He who Created, shall, through Love, perfect and save; And that which hath such poor expression here, Shall find fruition in a brighter sphere. FOR A’ THAT. [The following poem was given under the inspiration of Robert Burns.] Is there a luckless wight on earth, Oppressed wi’ care and a’ that, Who holds his life as little worth, His home is Heaven for a’ that-- For a’ that, and a’ that. There’s muckle joy for a’ that; He’s seen the warst o’ hell below, His home is Heaven for a’ that. The weary slave that drags his chain, In toil and grief, and a’ that, Shall find relief from a’ his pain, And rest in Heaven from a’ that. From a’ that and a’ that. There’s freedom there from a’ that, For Justice throws into the scale A recompense for a’ that.