Song

Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,

Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,

And thro' the clefts, itself has made,

We spy the flashes of the Blade !

But thro' the clefts, itself has made,

We likewise see Love's flashing blade,

By rust consumed or snapt in twain :

And only Hilt and Stump remain.