THE HOME OF LOVE.
Thou mov'st in visions, love!—Around thy way,
E'en through this world's rough path and changeful day,
For ever floats a gleam,
Not from the realms of moonlight or the morn,
But thine own soul's illumined chambers born—
The colouring of a dream!
Love, shall I read thy dream?—oh! is it not
All of some sheltering, wood-embosomed spot—
A bower for thee and thine?
Yes! lone and lowly is that home; yet there
Something of heaven in the transparent air
Makes every flower divine.
Something that mellows and that glorifies,
Breathes o'er it ever from the tender skies,
As o'er some blessed isle;
E'en like the soft and spiritual glow,
Kindling rich woods, whereon th' ethereal bow
Sleeps lovingly awhile.
The very whispers of the wind have there
A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear
Greeting from some bright shore,
Where none have said farewell!—where no decay
Lends the faint crimson to the dying day;
Where the storm's might is o'er.
And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest,
In the deep sanctuary of one true breast
Hidden from earthly ill:
There would'st thou watch the homeward step, whose sound
Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round,
Thine inmost soul can thrill.
There by the hearth should many a glorious page,
From mind to mind the immortal heritage,
For thee its treasures pour;
Or music's voice at vesper hours be heard,
Or dearer interchange of playful word,
Affection's household lore.
And the rich unison of mingled prayer,
The melody of hearts in heavenly air,
Thence duly should arise;
Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath,
Of spirits, not to be disjoin'd by death,
Up to the starry skies.
There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come
To mar the stillness of that angel-home;
There should thy slumbers be
Weigh'd down with honey-dew, serenely bless'd,
Like theirs who first in Eden's grove took rest
Under some balmy tree.
Love, Love! thou passionate in joy and woe!
And canst thou hope for cloudless peace below—
Here, where bright things must die?
O thou! that wildly worshipping, dost shed
On the frail altar of a mortal head
Gifts of infinity!
Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love!
Danger seems gathering from beneath, above,
Still round thy precious things;
Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose,
In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose,
Here, where the blight hath wings.
And as a flower, with some fine sense imbued,
To shrink before the wind's vicissitude,
So in thy prescient breast
Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill
To the low footstep of each coming ill;
—Oh! canst thou dream of rest?
Bear up thy dream! thou mighty and thou weak!
Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to break—
As a flame, tempest-sway'd!
He that sits calm on high is yet the source
Whence thy soul's current hath its troubled course,
He that great deep hath made!
Will he not pity?—He whose searching eye
Reads all the secrets of thine agony?—
Oh! pray to be forgiven
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess,
And seek with Him that bower of blessedness—
Love! thy sole home is heaven!
