So then it is Love’s ever-running rill That tells the widow what she once possess’d,— That very Love that, in the days gone by, Out of her language blotted “moan” and “sigh”! So then it is Love’s brimming tide that rolls Along the placid veins of wedded souls,— That very Love that faced the iron sleet, Trampling inane Convention under feet, And scoffing at the impotent discreet! So then it is Love’s beauty-kindled flame That keeps the plighted from the taint of time Year after year! Ah yes, the very same That made our young bureaucrat blaze in rhyme! So it is Love’s young bliss that will not brave The voyage over vaulted Ocean’s wave, But asks a sacrifice when, like the sun, Its face should fill with glory, _making_ one! Ah no, you vulgar prophets of the Lie, Give things the names we ought to know them by; Call widows’ passion—wanting what they miss, And wedlock’s _habit_—call it what it is! STRAWMAN. Young man, this insolence has gone too far! In every word there’s scoffing and defiance. [_Goes close up to Falk._ Now I’ll gird up my aged loins to war For hallowed custom against modern science! FALK. I go to battle as it were a feast! STRAWMAN. Good! For your bullets I will be a beacon!— [_Nearer._ A wedded pair is holy, like a priest— STIVER [_at_ FALK’S _other side_]. And a betrothed— FALK. Half-holy, like the deacon. STRAWMAN. Behold these children;—see,—this little throng! _Io triumphe_ may for them be sung! How was it possible—how practicable—; The words of truth are strong, inexorable;— He has no hearing whom they cannot move. See,—every one of them’s a child of Love—! [_Stops in confusion._ That is—you understand—I would have said—! MISS JAY [_fanning herself with her handkerchief_]. This is a very mystical oration! FALK.