 | Poems |  |
70
LOVE'S CREED.
When, love, thy charms I see,
Can I a sceptic be?
Ah! no, conviction in a glance is given;
For in thy form and face
A hand divine I trace,
Laugh at the powers of chance and own a Heaven!
Can I a sceptic be?
Ah! no, conviction in a glance is given;
For in thy form and face
A hand divine I trace,
Laugh at the powers of chance and own a Heaven!
Though atoms, idly hurl'd,
Might frame this mighty world;
Though seas and plains from chaos might have birth,
Yet, oh! what chance could give
A form like thine to live?
What chaos yield thy judgment, wit, and worth?
Might frame this mighty world;
Though seas and plains from chaos might have birth,
Yet, oh! what chance could give
A form like thine to live?
What chaos yield thy judgment, wit, and worth?
What chance could give thy cheek
That hue so rich and sleek,
And fix that radiant brilliance in thine eye?
What chaos could bestow
Those locks of golden flow,
And breathe that witching fragrance in thy sigh?
That hue so rich and sleek,
And fix that radiant brilliance in thine eye?
71
Those locks of golden flow,
And breathe that witching fragrance in thy sigh?
Own the proud sceptic must!
No chance-rais'd dance of dust,
A face, a figure, so divine, could frame!
'Tis writ in each fair line,
Only a hand divine
Could to that perfect image give the flame!
No chance-rais'd dance of dust,
A face, a figure, so divine, could frame!
'Tis writ in each fair line,
Only a hand divine
Could to that perfect image give the flame!
Thine eyes, which shine so bright,
Are lit with Heaven's own light;
An angel's aspiration is thy breath!
Thy reason, ever right,
Keen wit and judgment bright
Immortal are, and mock the dart of death!
Are lit with Heaven's own light;
An angel's aspiration is thy breath!
Thy reason, ever right,
Keen wit and judgment bright
Immortal are, and mock the dart of death!
I seek not musty schools,
But scorn the pedant's rules,
I am not vers'd in theologic lore!
That there's a God, I know,
To whom I ever owe
My duty—love!—I wish not to know more!
But scorn the pedant's rules,
I am not vers'd in theologic lore!
That there's a God, I know,
To whom I ever owe
My duty—love!—I wish not to know more!
72
A simple creed I own,
I hold but this alone—
That Heaven, for some wise purpose, unconfess'd,
Form'd every creature rare,
That fills earth, ocean, air,
And that it through its works is worshipp'd best.
I hold but this alone—
That Heaven, for some wise purpose, unconfess'd,
Form'd every creature rare,
That fills earth, ocean, air,
And that it through its works is worshipp'd best.
Then still I'll kneel to thee,
My heart's lov'd deity,
Nor shalt thou, dear, my orisons reprove;
Through thee, I worship Heaven!
Through thee, my faith is given!
Then to adore thee is religion, Love!
My heart's lov'd deity,
Nor shalt thou, dear, my orisons reprove;
Through thee, I worship Heaven!
Through thee, my faith is given!
Then to adore thee is religion, Love!
| Poems | |