SPIRIT OF LOVE.

By Frances Fuller Victor

Ye gentle ministers, ye have done well,

But‘ tis for love that most the poet pineth,

And till I spell him with my magic spell,

In vain for him earth smiles or heaven shineth.

Behold I touch his heart, and there upspring

Blooms to his cheeks, and flashes to his eyes;

His scornful lips upon the instant sing,

And all his pulses leap with ecstasies.

‘ Tis love the poet wants; he cannot live

Without caressing and without caress,

Which all to charity his fellows give;

But I will wrap his soul in tenderness,

And straightway from his lips will burst a song

All loving hearts shall echo and prolong.