A lover’s smart is not from fleshly pine; A probe is love; it sounds hearts’ depths, divine. Let love proceed from this or other cause, It matters not; heavenward it mortals draws. 80 However well we strive love to portray, We blush thereat, when love our hearts doth sway. Words make most matters plain and manifest; But love unspoken speaks whole volumes best. When pen took up from zeal the writing trade, In love’s description, oh! such blots it made! Our wits in love’s affairs stand sore perplexed; Love only can elucidate love’s text. The sun alone can well explain the sun. Wilt see’t expounded? Turn to him alone. 85 A shade, ’tis true, of him gives some small hint; The shining sun surpasses all comment. A shade, like evening chitchat, sends to sleep, From sun’s effulgence does full knowledge leap. That day-orb, still, each eve sets, here below; The soul-sun, God, shines in eternal glow. ’Mong things extern that orb has not a peer; But mock suns we can make, our nights to cheer. On heart unless the soul-sun cast a ray, No thought, no picture can its sheen portray. 90 Can mind His glorious essence comprehend? His presence, then, to image who’ll pretend? Of poet’s verse when God’s the holy theme, Its minished head the sun may hide, ’twould seem. At mention of His name each breast must find, A duty ’tis His grace to call to mind. The breath of life He to this body gave, With Him to reunite, should mercy save. These years I’ve conversed with Him. Life serene! One repetition more! O blissful scene! 95 How pleasant heaven and earth their smiling hold! He offers soul, mind, eye, a hundredfold! Beyond my strength, O try me not these days! My reason ’d fail to falter forth Thy praise. The song of man, when uninspired by Thee, Mere fulsome, flattering trash is seen to be. Bid me describe, whose every nerve is seared, A lover’s woe, whom mistress never cheered. His lonesomeness, the anguish of his breast, Not here I’ll paint; elsewhere it may be best. 100 He cries: “O succour me; I faint, I pant; And quickly; lest delay the dagger plant!” The Mystic[64] true relieves each moment’s need; “To-morrow” ’s not a point in his pure creed. Art not persuaded so? The proverb scan: “Delay’s the thief of time;” say: “bane of man.” Love’s sweetest favours are conferred by stealth; Its darksome hints are treasured mines of wealth. The tale’s most pleasant to a lover’s ears, That tells of joys he’s tasted, ills he fears. 105