Long the road,
Till Love came down it!
Dark the life,
Till Love did crown it!
Dark the life,
And long the road,
Till Love came
To share the load!
For the touch
Of Love transfigures
All the road
And all its rigours.
Life and Death,
Love's touch transfigures.
Life and Death
And all that lies
In between,
Love sanctifies.
Once the heavenly spark is lighted,
Once in love two hearts united,
Nevermore
Shall aught that was be
As before.

Bright stars of Faith and Hope, her eyes
Shall shine for us through all the years.
For all her life was Love, and fears
Touch not the love that never dies.

And Death itself, to her, was but
The wider opening of the door
That had been opening, more and more,
Through all her life, and ne'er was shut.

--And never shall be shut. She left
The door ajar for you and me,
And, looking after her, we see
The glory shining through the cleft.

And when our own time comes,--again
We'll meet her face to face;--again

SET TO MUSIC BY MR. VOIGHT.

What do I love? A polish'd mind,
A temper cheerful, meek, and kind;
A graceful air, unsway'd by art,
A voice that sinks into the heart,
A playful and benignant smile--
Alas! my heart responds the while,
All this, my Emily, is true,
But I love more in loving you!

I love those roses when they rise,
From joy, from anger, or surprise;
I love the kind, attentive zeal,
So prompt to know what others feel,
The mildness which can ne'er reprove,

Pass thy hand through my hair, lore;
One little year ago,
In a curtain bright and rare, love,
It fell golden o'er my brow.
But the gold has passed away, love,
And the drooping curls are thin,
And cold threads of wintry gray, love,
Glitter their folds within:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age--can it be care?

Fasten thine eyes on mine, love;
One little year ago,
Midsummer's sunny shine, love,
Had not a warmer glow.
But the light is there no more, love,

The hours are past, love,
Oh, fled they not too fast, love!
Those happy hours, when down the mountain side,
We saw the rosy mists of morning glide,
And, hand in hand, went forth upon our way,
Full of young life and hope, to meet the day.

The hours are past, love,
Oh, fled they not too fast, love!
Those sunny hours, when from the mid-day heat,
We sought the waterfall with loitering feet,
And o'er the rocks that lock the gleaming pool,
Crept down into its depths, so dark and cool.

The hours are past, love,

A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,
Full of eternal constancy and faith,
And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs
Truth's holy voice, with ev'ry balmy breath;
So journeys she along life's crowded way,
Keeping her soul's sweet counsel from all sight;
Nor pomp, nor vanity, lead her astray,
Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, or bright:
For pity, sometimes, doth she pause, and stay
Those whom she meeteth mourning, for her heart
Knows well in suffering how to bear its part.
Patiently lives she through each dreary day,

I would I knew the lady of thy heart!
She whom thou lov'st perchance, as I love thee,--
She unto whom thy thoughts and wishes flee;
Those thoughts, in which, alas! I bear no part.
Oh, I have sat and sighed, thinking how fair,
How passing beautiful, thy love must be;
Of mind how high, of modesty how rare;
And then I've wept, I've wept in agony!
Oh, that I might but once behold those eyes,
That to thy enamour'd gaze alone seem fair;
Once hear that voice, whose music still replies
To the fond vows thy passionate accents swear:

Hail the implacable Iconoclast
Whose images of ivory and gold
Make proud the dust that his enthusiast
In her dark trance may very God behold.
From the clear music of his delicate
Peripheries and porches of delight
He draws her down through cruel gate on gate,
Through immemorial, blind, implacable rite
That strips her of her dream-branched veils of youth,
And naked, agonised like trodden grapes,
Drags her before the imperishable Truth,
The flaming Ecstacy wherefrom he shapes
Real myth and doctrine. Therefore I lift up

Ah! what if thy last canticle be said,
Bright Archer of illusion adored of old,
Thou dream-fast Love in raiment burning-red,
Wreathed with white doves, quivered with burning gold?
Pass with thy Triumph of Lovers, Aucassin,
Tristram, and Pharamond, and Lancelot,
Dante, and Rudel, all thy haughty kin,
Princes in that high heaven, as we are not.--
With some gilt couchant sphinx both casqued and crowned,
All mailed in amethyst the new god comes,
Whose brooding beautiful eyes at last have found
Our uncanonical dark martyrdoms,

Not so, my Soul? Rather for thee the fate
Of those hieratic Carthaginian queens
Who needs must vanish through the gods' own gate,
Even holy Flame, with music and great threnes
Idolatrous, as on soft gorgeous wings,
If Time's least kiss had subtly disallowed
Their beauty's sacred unisons?--Fair things
Desire their revel-raiment be their shroud.
Yet, fierce insurgent, cease vain wars to wage!
Art thou so pure as to decline, forsooth,
These penitential usages of age
That expiate proud cruelties of youth,