II

Here ends my feeble sketch of what

Might, but will never be your lot;

And I foresee how oft these rhymes

Shall make you smile in after-times.

If I have read your nature right,

It only waits a spark of light;

And when that comes, as come it must,

It will not fall on arid dust,

Nor yet on that which breaks to flame

In the first blush of maiden shame;

But on a heart which, even at rest,

Is warmer than an April nest,

Where, settling soft, that spark shall creep

About as gently as a sleep;

Still stealing on with pace so slow

Yourself will scarcely feel the glow,

Till after many and many a day,

Although no gleam its course betray,

It shall attain the inmost shrine,

And wrap it in a fire divine!

I know not when or whence indeed

Shall fall and burst the burning seed,

But oh! once kindled, it will blaze,

I know, forever! By its rays

You will perceive, with subtler eyes,

The meaning in the earth and skies,

Which, with their animated chain

Of grass and flowers, and sun and rain,

Of green below, and blue above,

Are but a type of married love.

You will perceive that in the breast

The germs of many virtues rest,

Which, ere they feel a lover's breath,

Lie in a temporary death;

And till the heart is wooed and won

It is an earth without a sun.