II.— Love's Really.

I walk, I trust, with open eyes;

I've travell'd half my worldly course;

And in the way behind me lies

Much vanity and some remorse;

I've lived to feel how pride may part

Spirits, tho’ match'd like hand and glove;

I've blush'd for love's abode, the heart;

But have not disbelieved in love;

Nor unto love, sole mortal thing

Of worth immortal, done the wrong

To count it, with the rest that sing,

Unworthy of a serious song;

And love is my reward; for now,

When most of dead'ning time complain,

The myrtle blooms upon my brow,

Its odour quickens all my brain.