The graceful Elm and clinging Vine, When to bosom of the tree Bacchus' clusters prest you see, And the Nymph the fruit receives, And hides it amid dewy leaves; Ev'n as the poets tell of old, In legends of the Age of Gold. Faith and Love know no such flame, Their pure twining brings no shame; Look for taint, you'll find it missing: 'Tis as flower flower kissing; Or twin-roses dewy dripping, And twin-bees their honey sipping. The Turtle-dove, robb'd of her mate, Pines and mourns disconsolate; Yet still lives on in widow'd grief, Knowing at times Hope's sweet relief. But Faith when once of Love bereft Loses her all, has nothing left; Nor mourns nor frets nor pales--she's dead, Struck to the heart astonièd. The Palm that by the wintry blast Sees her companion-tree downcast, Whose mighty shadow o'er her threw Protection when the fierce storm blew; Her umbrage sheds, and quivering Seeks that some fav'ring wind would bring Her branches with his boughs to mingle, Since she is left in sadness, single; Wretched, she wears and wastes away, Leaf following leaf in wan decay, Until at last, naked and bare, She shivers in the piercing air; And when the Spring comes, Winter sped, 'Tis vain to call her--she is dead! But when Love from Faith is gone, Faith lingers not still on and on; That while her form yet meets your eye, You can pronounce 'She'll surely die.' SHE'S DEAD i' the instant: or you will Maintain a stark corpse liveth still, Whose soul has pass'd beyond the sky, Sunder'd until the last great Cry. Faith is the body, Love the soul; Take Love from it, you take the whole: Now, now indeed thy Faith's alone, But being alone, lo, it is none. To make it clear, turn Homer's page That paints Achilles' hate and rage, When, having mighty Hector slain, He dragg'd him dead over the plain-- That Hector whom the chariot feels Dragg'd helpless, lifeless at its wheels, Was it the same who, with proud crest, That chariot's lord had lately prest, Eager the victory to wrest? Hercules' name and deeds dost see In Œta's bloody tragedy, When dead the mighty hero lay, Of jealousy the poison'd prey. His living strength the lion slew, And hide Nemæan round him threw: 'Gainst more than lion-rage of Death Dost summon the sad corpse of Faith? Sure Love with love for Faith will burn, While Faith herself trusts Love in turn. THEREFORE: