p. 113.

"And who hath not been ravished, as she passed
With all her playful band of little ones,
Like Luna, with her daughters of the sky,
Walking in matron majesty and grace?"

In much simplicity, but ill to solve:

And heard their observations strange and new;
And settled whiles their little quarrels, soon
Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love.
And still I looked upon their loveliness,
And sought through nature for similitudes
Of perfect beauty, innocence, and bliss;
And fairest imagery around me thronged:
Dewdrops at day-spring on a seraph's locks,
Roses that bathe about the well of life,

Young Loves, young Hopes, dancing on Morning's

cheek,

Gems leaping in the coronet of Love!
So beautiful, so full of life, they seemed
As made entire of beams of angels' eyes.
Gay, guileless, sportive, lovely little things!
Playing around the den of Sorrow, clad
In smiles, believing in their fairy hopes,
And thinking man and woman true! all joy,
Happy all day, and happy all the night!

Hail, holy Love! thou word that sums all bliss, Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most Thou givest! spring-head of all felicity, Deepest when most is drawn! emblem of God! O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink! Essence that binds the uncreated Three, Chain that unites creation to its Lord, Centre to which all being gravitates, Eternal, ever-growing, happy Love! Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all; Instead of law, fulfilling every law;

Entirely blest, because thou seek'st no more,

Hopest not, nor fear'st; but on the present liv'st,

And hold'st perfection smiling in thy arms.
Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless Love!
On earth mysterious, and mysterious still
In heaven; sweet chord, that harmonises all
The harps of Paradise! the spring, the well,
That fills the bowl and banquet of the sky!

But why should I to thee of love divine ?
Who happy, and not eloquent of Love?
Who holy, and, as thou art, pure, and not
A temple where her glory ever dwells,
Where burn her fires, and beams her perfect eye?

Kindred to this, part of this holy flame, Was youthful love-the sweetest boon of Earth. Hail, Love! first Love, thou word that sums all bliss! The sparkling cream of all Time's blessedness,

The silken down of happiness complete!

Discerner of the ripest grapes of joy,

She gathered and selected with her hand,
All finest relishes, all fairest sights,

All rarest odours, all divinest sounds,

All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul;

And brought the holy mixture home, and filled

The heart with all superlatives of bliss.

But who would that expound, which words transcends, Must talk in vain. Behold a meeting-scene

Of early love, and thence infer its worth.

It was an eve of Autumn's holiest mood;
The corn-fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand,
And all the winds slept soundly. Nature seemed,
In silent contemplation, to adore

"It was an eve of Autumn's holiest mood;
The corn-fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand,
And all the winds slept soundly."