O DEARER to my thankful heart
Than all the circling sun surveys!
Thy presence only can impart
Light, peace, and gladness to my days.

Beneath thy soul-reviving ray,
Ev'n cold affliction's wintery gloom
Shall brighten into vernal day,
And hopes and joys immortal bloom.

Vain world, be gone with all thy toys;
I have no room for trifles here:
My heart aspires to nobler joys;
Thy fairest glories disappear.

Bright realms of bliss, where Jesus reigns,
My wish, my care, my hope invite:
Where raptur'd seraphs tune their strains

On my account, to grief a ceaseless prey,
Dost thou a sympathetic anguish prove?
I would not wish to live another day,
If my recovery did not charm my love:
For what were life, and health, and bloom to me,
Were they displeasing, beauteous youth! to thee?

Tranced in the glamour of a dream
Where banquet-lights and fancies gleam,
And ripest wit and wine abound,
And pledges hale go round and round,—
Lo, dazzled with enchanted rays—
As in the golden olden days
Sir Galahad—my eyes swim up
To greet your splendor, Loving Cup!

What is the secret of your art,
Linking together hand and heart
Your myriad votaries who do
Themselves most honor honoring you?
What gracious service have you done
To win the name that you have won?—
Kissing it back from tuneful lips
That sing your praise between the sips!

But yet within life's ocean there are isles
Where for calm sunlit seasons thou mayest be
Safe from the cold arms of the sullen sea,
Press arms divine, and meet diviner smiles.
White hands shall beckon through dim forest-aisles,
And yet a fragrance not of flower or tree
Shall lure thee forth to roam eternally:
The known joy palls, the unknown joy beguiles.

In some fair island under sapphire skies
A woman waits, with queenly lips unkissed
And heart that throbs with unacknowledged flame.
That island still is wrapped in robes of mist:

No seas again shall sever;
No desert intervene;
No deep and flowing river
Shall roll its tide between.

No bleak cliffs upward towering,
Shall bound our eager sight;
No tempest darkly lowering,
Shall wrap us in its night.

Love, and unsevered union
Of soul with those we love,
Nearness and glad communion
Shall be our joy above.

No dread of wasting sickness,
No thought of ache or pain,
No fretting hours of weakness,
Shall mar our peace again.

No death our homes o'ershading,
Shall e'er our harps unstring,

Yes, the gods are dumb and dead,
But the bobolink sings on!
And the bluebird, overhead,
Pipes his joy when Day has won
Fair Aurora's blushing face,
Hidden in a cloudy lace.
While the pipe of Pan is still,
Let the new world have its will!
Listen to the robin's playing,
On the maple's top a-swaying,
Ah, so proud of that one nest,—
Puffing out his scarlet vest,—
Piper of the dress parade
In sunrise glow or twilight shade.

Yes, the gods are dumb and dead;
Never naiad from the rushes
Shrieks at panting faun that pushes

Must be God's warders hearken every sigh,
Draw close and lovingly around the old;
The glories on the going summer lie,
On the spent sun attend the hosts in gold.

We played at love and went our way,
Careless and free, that far-off winter day.
It seemed a brave adventure, or a dream.
How could we know that love was born that day!

How could we know that love hid in a game?
That through the lips of coquetry a flame
Would leap and burn, consuming all the dross
And welding us in Love's enduring flame?

To-day I hold thee close and search thy face
To see if I might find one mocking trace
Of that wild mood that toyed with destiny—
And in thine eyes I only see—my face!

Fond Lunatick forbeare. Why dost thou sue
For thy Affection's Pay ere it is due?
Love's Fruites are Legall use; and therfore may
Be only taken on the Marriage day.
Who for this Interest too early call,
By that Exaction loose the Principall.

Then gather not those immature delights,
Untill their riper Autumne thee invites.
He that Abortive Corne cutts off his Ground,
No Husband, but a Ravisher is found.
So those that reap their Love, before they Wed,
Do in effect but Cuckold their own Bed.

Yet other thanks I owe
To him the guardian Power who guides our way
That every sense was clear when closed the day;
Clear almost as beneath the morning's glow

The eyes that in the far-off days looked down,
Ever with love, on flower and flower,
Growing in love, ne'er failed in power?
Death, having force to slay, could not discrown.

Still were the stars discerned
As clearly as when in years long dead,
Mother, upon thy bridal night they burned:
No tiniest star could veil its golden head.

And still was music sweet.