Whate’er a lover says, the sentiment of love Shines through his words, if but thoughts towards his mistress rove. Discourses he on law, love furnishes the theme; Throughout his labouring periods, love’s the enthymeme. Should blasphemy rise to his lips, of faith it smacks. Doubt, when by him expressed, shows confidence’s knacks. The spume that rises from the sea of his pure heart Partakes the nature of its source, truth’s counterpart. We must esteem such spume as foam of mountain-rill;— Upbraiding from a lip beloved is worshipped still. 645 Attention we pay not to harsh words issuing thence;— The features we adore divest them of offence. However strange such utterances, they all seem true; The stranger they appear, to sense they lend more cue. If sugar we should cast in mould to look like bread, Then eat it, we the sugar taste. Form’s of no stead. Should true believer golden idol light upon, Will he for worship set it up, anon, anon? Nay! To the fire he’ll quickly it in wrath consign, And strip it of the form that makes it sin’s foul sign. 650 The gold, abstracted from the idol’s form, is pure. That form it is corrupts,--can men to sin allure. The gold’s an essence fixed, produced by nature’s God; The idol stamp is transitory;--soon downtrod. Thou for one flea to flames thy bed wouldst never give; For one musquito’s hum, not wish to cease to live. If form-entrapped thou be, idolater thou art! Eschew mere form; attend to essence, as thy part. Art bound on pilgrimage? Seek other pilgrims out;— Be they from Hind, from Tatary, or Hadramout. 655 Peer not into their features; look not at their skins. Inquire their thoughts, their hearts;--if these be free of sins. A negro findest thou one with thee in faith and creed? Him deem a white;--thy brother is he in thy need. Our tale is told. Its ups and downs are manifold. Like lovers’ thoughts, it’s wandering, unconnected, bold. Commencement it has none;--eternity’s its sign;— Still less conclusion;--so, eternity’s design. Or, rather, it’s like water;--every drop, so rich, Commencement is, and end;--yet shows not which is which. 660 But, God forbid! Our story’s not a fable. See! Its narrative’s a point concerns both me and thee! A gnostic, in possession of his wits and sense, Repeats not what is past;--he bides the present tense.