O Axel! Wounds soon lose their smart, And nothing but the scars remain. Thy breast is healed, thy thoughts are sane, But ah! how is it with thy heart? Look not so fondly at the hand Which bound thy wounds with gentle band; That hand as white as sculptor’s stone,— It must not linger in thine own. It is more dangerous by far Than angry Turkish hands last year, In Bender, callous with the spear And cimeter, and many a scar. Those lips so fresh in changeless red, Which only whisper when they ope In spirit-lays of trust and hope,— Far better didst thou hear instead Czar Peter’s hundred cannon roar In line at Pultava once more. When pale thou walkest in the heat, With drooping limbs and stumbling feet, Lean, Axel, on thy sword alone, Not on that arm beside thine own, Which Love hath formed so round and fair That he might make his pillow there. O Love! all miracles in one! Thou breath of universal bliss! Thou breeze of heaven which comes to kiss Life’s groves beneath their sweltering sun! Thou open heart in Nature’s breast, The solace both of gods and men! Each ocean-drop clings to the rest, And all the stars that smile above Wind on from pole to pole again Their bride-dance round the suns they love. Yet love is in the human mind But twilight of remembered rays From fairer and from better days,[D] When once a little maid she twined The dance in heaven’s azure hall With silver crowns on arch and wall, And when in weariness would rest, Slept nestled on her father’s breast. Then was she rich as reason’s powers Of growth, her speech was only prayer, And each her brother of the fair And winged sons in heaven’s bowers. But ah! she fell; and here her love Is no more pure like that above. Yet in the lover oft she traces Lines from her heavenly kindred’s faces, And hears their voice in notes of spring, And in the songs the poets sing. How glad, how sweet that moment is! As when upon some desert track The Swiss hears sounds which straight bring back His Alpine childhood’s memories.