There is no place so sweet as the greenwoods
In summer, heaven and earth awake with sounds
Melodial; the ripple of the breeze
Amongst the sun-green leaves, and pliant boughs,
Just like the rustle of young summer's dress;
The songs of birds, and the low mystic hum
Of bees amongst their floral treasuries;
Sweetest of all, the cool and liquid tones
Of brooks—nature's true-hearted bards, who draw
Bright inspirations from a pebbled ridge,
And frame them into sweetest melody.
There's poetry in every pendent leaf
If we could read them truly; but our hearts
Grow strange to nature's language in the world,
Nor can translate their heaven lore. Ev'ry change
From bud to full-blown ripeness, thence again
To sereness and decay, is as the flow
Of a short tale, whose moral is life's history.
The woods were made for poets and all dreamers,
Men who philosophize Time's hour-glass down,
And younger grow, till with the last shot sand—
They die. The very leaves are fanciful,
And write their maxims on the sward in sun
And shadow. Here I'll lay me down and dream
An hour away amongst these violets!
O my heart joys to gaze upon the sky
Gleaming athwart green leaves, like happiness
Above the gloom and shadow of the world!
Then, thought first feels its attribute divine,
And like a callow eagle spreads its wings,
And makes its rest amid the lumin'd heavens.
The lark sings poized above me in the sun,
Like Moslem in his gilded minaret
Calling the faithful unto matin prayer.
There would my spirit follow thee, sweet bird,
Ling'ring for ever in the midway air,
Earth shrouded 'neath me by ascending mists,
And sunny-crested cloudlets, like the base
Of bright Imagination's airy halls,
Whose roof is the star-fretted empyrean:
Thence let the world hear my full gushing joy,
And thrill at pleasures they can never know,
Hear the sweet tumult of my throbbing breast,
Like a clear spring of joyance bubbling up
And overflowing time and space with streams;
Whilst I, wrapt in my own high blessedness,
Drain the sweet nectar shareless and alone.
In summer, heaven and earth awake with sounds
Melodial; the ripple of the breeze
Amongst the sun-green leaves, and pliant boughs,
Just like the rustle of young summer's dress;
The songs of birds, and the low mystic hum
Of bees amongst their floral treasuries;
Sweetest of all, the cool and liquid tones
Of brooks—nature's true-hearted bards, who draw
Bright inspirations from a pebbled ridge,
And frame them into sweetest melody.
There's poetry in every pendent leaf
If we could read them truly; but our hearts
Grow strange to nature's language in the world,
Nor can translate their heaven lore. Ev'ry change
From bud to full-blown ripeness, thence again
To sereness and decay, is as the flow
Of a short tale, whose moral is life's history.
The woods were made for poets and all dreamers,
Men who philosophize Time's hour-glass down,
And younger grow, till with the last shot sand—
They die. The very leaves are fanciful,
And write their maxims on the sward in sun
And shadow. Here I'll lay me down and dream
An hour away amongst these violets!
O my heart joys to gaze upon the sky
Gleaming athwart green leaves, like happiness
Above the gloom and shadow of the world!
Then, thought first feels its attribute divine,
And like a callow eagle spreads its wings,
And makes its rest amid the lumin'd heavens.
The lark sings poized above me in the sun,
Like Moslem in his gilded minaret
Calling the faithful unto matin prayer.
There would my spirit follow thee, sweet bird,
Ling'ring for ever in the midway air,
Earth shrouded 'neath me by ascending mists,
And sunny-crested cloudlets, like the base
Of bright Imagination's airy halls,
Whose roof is the star-fretted empyrean:
Thence let the world hear my full gushing joy,
And thrill at pleasures they can never know,
Hear the sweet tumult of my throbbing breast,
Like a clear spring of joyance bubbling up
And overflowing time and space with streams;
Whilst I, wrapt in my own high blessedness,
Drain the sweet nectar shareless and alone.
Spirit.
The lark is beauteous in its skiey home,
Amid the confluence of heaven's brightest rays
Singing for heaven and earth undying hymns
Of beauty, and deep-hearted tenderness;
But more, when sinking on its own sweet song,
It flutter, jubilant, to its soft nest
Couched in the lowly bosom of the earth.
And so it is with life. Man may build up
A pillar of misanthropy and self,
Raising him, statue-like, above his kind,
And emulate the monumental stone
In coldness and stern-browed indifference,
But in the paths of love, and sympathy,
And lowly charity, true glory lies,
The substance of all joy and happiness.
Let not thy spirit spurn man's fellowship,
And force the stream of kindness up life's steep,
Till, 'mid the rocky peaks of Thought it flow
Unmargined by the verdant bloom of Act.
Shun Self! 'tis like the worm a rosy bud
Folds in its young embraces till it gnaw
The heart out. Nature's is no volume writ
For his interpreting who measures still
Her wisdom by the inverted standard rule
Of his own barrenness and blind conceit.
There's not a flower but with its own sweet breath
Cries out on selfishness, the while it gives
Its fragrant treasures to the summer air;
And not a bird within the greenwood shade,
The burden of whose gentle minstrelsie
Is not of love and open-hearted joy.
The blest of earth are they whose sympathies
Are free to all as streams by the wayside,
Cheering, sustaining by their limpid tide,
The weary and the footsore of the earth.
Amid the confluence of heaven's brightest rays
Singing for heaven and earth undying hymns
Of beauty, and deep-hearted tenderness;
But more, when sinking on its own sweet song,
It flutter, jubilant, to its soft nest
Couched in the lowly bosom of the earth.
And so it is with life. Man may build up
A pillar of misanthropy and self,
Raising him, statue-like, above his kind,
And emulate the monumental stone
In coldness and stern-browed indifference,
But in the paths of love, and sympathy,
And lowly charity, true glory lies,
The substance of all joy and happiness.
Let not thy spirit spurn man's fellowship,
And force the stream of kindness up life's steep,
Till, 'mid the rocky peaks of Thought it flow
Unmargined by the verdant bloom of Act.
Shun Self! 'tis like the worm a rosy bud
Folds in its young embraces till it gnaw
The heart out. Nature's is no volume writ
For his interpreting who measures still
Her wisdom by the inverted standard rule
Of his own barrenness and blind conceit.
There's not a flower but with its own sweet breath
Cries out on selfishness, the while it gives
Its fragrant treasures to the summer air;
And not a bird within the greenwood shade,
The burden of whose gentle minstrelsie
Is not of love and open-hearted joy.
The blest of earth are they whose sympathies
Are free to all as streams by the wayside,
Cheering, sustaining by their limpid tide,
The weary and the footsore of the earth.
O summer sunshine! floating round all things,
Meadow and hill and leafy coverture,
Steeping all Nature in most sweet delight,
Till upward from the bosom of the earth,
Before so cold and blank and unadorned,
Spring fairest flowers to gladden and adore—
That fillest the blue vault of heaven with smiles
As of a mother smiling on her child,
Pure, holy, without guile or artifice,
Melting the spirit of each fleeting cloud
From darkness unto beauty and soft grace—
Thou art the emblem of that perfect love
That sheddeth joy around it evermore,
And from whose sweetness rise all gentle thoughts
As scent from vernal flowers; that in the heart
Waketh all goodness by a magic spell,
As the fine touch of blindness makes a page
Start into instant light and eloquence.
Cherish thou kindness ever, for this life
Would be most blissful if its sunshine came
To strengthen on Endeavour to its aim.
Meadow and hill and leafy coverture,
Steeping all Nature in most sweet delight,
Till upward from the bosom of the earth,
Before so cold and blank and unadorned,
Spring fairest flowers to gladden and adore—
That fillest the blue vault of heaven with smiles
As of a mother smiling on her child,
Pure, holy, without guile or artifice,
Melting the spirit of each fleeting cloud
From darkness unto beauty and soft grace—
Thou art the emblem of that perfect love
That sheddeth joy around it evermore,
And from whose sweetness rise all gentle thoughts
As scent from vernal flowers; that in the heart
Waketh all goodness by a magic spell,
As the fine touch of blindness makes a page
Start into instant light and eloquence.
Cherish thou kindness ever, for this life
Would be most blissful if its sunshine came
To strengthen on Endeavour to its aim.
Man.
Methinks there is no blessedness in life
More full than that which springs in solitude;
A fount unruffled by the outer world,
Unmingled with its honey or its gall;
But welling through the spirit silently,
Like a pure rill within a garden's bounds.
Let my life float, like the sad Indian's lamp,
Along the waves of Time, unpiloted
Save by the breath of heaven, and the stirred tide,
Till when its course be run it sink to rest
Beyond the ken and fathoming of man;
Let me not be a legend mouthed about
By empty gossips o'er their clinking cups,
Who tell the last sad tale and with a smack
Turn to the merits of the passing wine.
'Twere something to be wept for by the young
And beautiful, but tears are things that dry
Sooner than dew upon the waking flowers,
Leaving the heart e'en gladder for their flow.
O could my life subside into a dream
Rising amid the stillness of calm sleep,
Filling the soul with radiant images
Of love, and grace, and beauty, all serene
And shadowless as yon blue sky is now!—
Would that the outward shows and forms of things
Could melt away from cold reality
To the warm brightness of the spiritual,
Losing the grossness of this present world,
As a fair face doth mirror'd in a glass—
And thus, reposing in seraphic trance,
Let the few years of earth's existence pass,
Like minutes in the quietness of sleep,
And waken to the glorious dawn of Heaven,
Refreshed, and scatheless from mortality.
More full than that which springs in solitude;
A fount unruffled by the outer world,
Unmingled with its honey or its gall;
But welling through the spirit silently,
Like a pure rill within a garden's bounds.
Let my life float, like the sad Indian's lamp,
Along the waves of Time, unpiloted
Save by the breath of heaven, and the stirred tide,
Till when its course be run it sink to rest
Beyond the ken and fathoming of man;
Let me not be a legend mouthed about
By empty gossips o'er their clinking cups,
Who tell the last sad tale and with a smack
Turn to the merits of the passing wine.
'Twere something to be wept for by the young
And beautiful, but tears are things that dry
Sooner than dew upon the waking flowers,
Leaving the heart e'en gladder for their flow.
O could my life subside into a dream
Rising amid the stillness of calm sleep,
Filling the soul with radiant images
Of love, and grace, and beauty, all serene
And shadowless as yon blue sky is now!—
Would that the outward shows and forms of things
Could melt away from cold reality
To the warm brightness of the spiritual,
Losing the grossness of this present world,
As a fair face doth mirror'd in a glass—
And thus, reposing in seraphic trance,
Let the few years of earth's existence pass,
Like minutes in the quietness of sleep,
And waken to the glorious dawn of Heaven,
Refreshed, and scatheless from mortality.
Spirit.
Thy wish, attain'd, would brand thee deep with shame;
Life was not made to rust in idle sloth
Until the canker eat its gloss away,
But like a falchion to grow bright with use,
And hew a passage to eternal bliss!
Canst thou stand 'fore that glory of the sun,
That like God's beacon on Eternity
Wakeneth up Creation unto Act,
And sheddeth strength and hope, to cheer them on,
Yet rebel-wise cast down thine untried arms,
Ere foes assail thee, or thy work be done?
No, there's a power within the soul that yearns
For action, as the lark for liberty,
Pursuing ever with insatiate thirst
And aspiration, some unsubstant aim.
There is assertion of the rule divine,
That rest must follow labour as the night
Closeth the turmoil of the wakeful day;
Then let the bright sun lead thee like a king
With dauntless heart to struggle and o'ercome,
Uncheck'd by mischance or poor discontent,
That shrivels up a monarch to a clown,
And rends his purple into beggar's rags.
Let no alluring plea of sensuous ease
Draw thee away from honour's rugged path,
Till sleep fall on thee from the wings of death,
And bear thee to sweet dreams and Paradise!
Life was not made to rust in idle sloth
Until the canker eat its gloss away,
But like a falchion to grow bright with use,
And hew a passage to eternal bliss!
Canst thou stand 'fore that glory of the sun,
That like God's beacon on Eternity
Wakeneth up Creation unto Act,
And sheddeth strength and hope, to cheer them on,
Yet rebel-wise cast down thine untried arms,
Ere foes assail thee, or thy work be done?
No, there's a power within the soul that yearns
For action, as the lark for liberty,
Pursuing ever with insatiate thirst
And aspiration, some unsubstant aim.
There is assertion of the rule divine,
That rest must follow labour as the night
Closeth the turmoil of the wakeful day;
Then let the bright sun lead thee like a king
With dauntless heart to struggle and o'ercome,
Uncheck'd by mischance or poor discontent,
That shrivels up a monarch to a clown,
And rends his purple into beggar's rags.
Let no alluring plea of sensuous ease
Draw thee away from honour's rugged path,
Till sleep fall on thee from the wings of death,
And bear thee to sweet dreams and Paradise!
Man.
How sweet it is to read fair Nature o'er
Reclining thus upon her gentle breast,
Like a young child that in her mother's face
Traceth the motions of deep tenderness,
Listing the murmurs of strange melodies
That wander ever round her fresh and clear,
Whence the sweet singers of our earth have caught
Rapt harmonies and echoed them for aye!
What study is like Nature's lumined page,
So glorious with perfect excellence,
That like the flowing of a mighty wind
It fills the crevices and deeps of soul!
Reclining thus upon her gentle breast,
Like a young child that in her mother's face
Traceth the motions of deep tenderness,
Listing the murmurs of strange melodies
That wander ever round her fresh and clear,
Whence the sweet singers of our earth have caught
Rapt harmonies and echoed them for aye!
What study is like Nature's lumined page,
So glorious with perfect excellence,
That like the flowing of a mighty wind
It fills the crevices and deeps of soul!
No upper chamber and no midnight oil
For me, to throw dim light upon the scroll,
Whose feeble pedantry dulls down the soul
From high imaginings to senseless words;
But for my lamp I'll have the summer sun
Set in the brightness of the firmament;
My chamber shall be canopied by heaven,
Gemmed by the glory of the fixëd stars,
And round it floating evermore the breath
Of nascent flowers, and fragrant greenery:
And for my books, all lovely things in Earth
And air, and heaven, all seasons and all times.
The Spring shall bring me all the thoughts of youth,
Its budding hopes and buoyant happiness;
'Twill sing me lays of tenderness and love,
That are the first sweet flowers of childhood's days,
And win me back to purity and joy
With the untainted current of its breath.
Summer will be the volume of the heart,
Expanded with the strength of growing life,
Swelling with full brimm'd feeling evermore,
And power and passion longing to be forth;
'Twill tell of life quick with the seed of thought,
Rising incessant into bud and bloom,
And shedding hope and promise over Time,
Like the sweet breath that tells the mariner
Of fragrant shores fast rising in his course.
Then Autumn, glorious with accomplishment,
The harvest and the fruitage of the past,
Stored with the gladness and the gain of life,
Or sadden'd by its unproductiveness;
And Winter like a prophecy would come
To warn me of the end that draweth nigh.
Each falling leaf that flutter'd from its bough,
Pale with the sereness of keen-biting frosts,
Would teach me that the ties of earth must loose,
One after one, the interests and joys
That made life's excellent completeness up,
Until the trunk, stripped of its verdant dress,
Stand in the naked dreadfulness of death.
Thus will my soul learn wisdom true and deep,
Not in the school of petty prejudice,
Where truth is measured out by interest,
And duty shrinks into expediency;
Not in the volumes of pedantic fools,
Who bind up knowledge, mummy-like, with terms,
That sunder'd, the enclosure turns to dust;
Not in the false philosophy of man,
Who speculates on causes and effects,
Yet thrusts his hand into the scorching flame,
And wonders that it singeth in the act—
But from her teaching who can never err,
The Pure, the Beautiful, the Mother mind,
That in the fulness of her unsearch'd soul,
Shrineth all knowledge and all loveliness!
For me, to throw dim light upon the scroll,
Whose feeble pedantry dulls down the soul
From high imaginings to senseless words;
But for my lamp I'll have the summer sun
Set in the brightness of the firmament;
My chamber shall be canopied by heaven,
Gemmed by the glory of the fixëd stars,
And round it floating evermore the breath
Of nascent flowers, and fragrant greenery:
And for my books, all lovely things in Earth
And air, and heaven, all seasons and all times.
The Spring shall bring me all the thoughts of youth,
Its budding hopes and buoyant happiness;
'Twill sing me lays of tenderness and love,
That are the first sweet flowers of childhood's days,
And win me back to purity and joy
With the untainted current of its breath.
Summer will be the volume of the heart,
Expanded with the strength of growing life,
Swelling with full brimm'd feeling evermore,
And power and passion longing to be forth;
'Twill tell of life quick with the seed of thought,
Rising incessant into bud and bloom,
And shedding hope and promise over Time,
Like the sweet breath that tells the mariner
Of fragrant shores fast rising in his course.
Then Autumn, glorious with accomplishment,
The harvest and the fruitage of the past,
Stored with the gladness and the gain of life,
Or sadden'd by its unproductiveness;
And Winter like a prophecy would come
To warn me of the end that draweth nigh.
Each falling leaf that flutter'd from its bough,
Pale with the sereness of keen-biting frosts,
Would teach me that the ties of earth must loose,
One after one, the interests and joys
That made life's excellent completeness up,
Until the trunk, stripped of its verdant dress,
Stand in the naked dreadfulness of death.
Thus will my soul learn wisdom true and deep,
Not in the school of petty prejudice,
Where truth is measured out by interest,
And duty shrinks into expediency;
Not in the volumes of pedantic fools,
Who bind up knowledge, mummy-like, with terms,
That sunder'd, the enclosure turns to dust;
Not in the false philosophy of man,
Who speculates on causes and effects,
Yet thrusts his hand into the scorching flame,
And wonders that it singeth in the act—
But from her teaching who can never err,
The Pure, the Beautiful, the Mother mind,
That in the fulness of her unsearch'd soul,
Shrineth all knowledge and all loveliness!
Spirit.
Ay! there are lessons of true wisdom writ
In every page of Nature, from the flower
Man treads beneath him as he wanders past,
The humblest and the weakest thing of earth,
Yet with its sweet breath rising on the air
To make the fragrance of the summer full,
Up to the rattle of the thunder cloud,
The voice of heaven heard rolling through the spheres
Till earth is dumb and stricken at the sound;
Then let thy heart lean to them reverently,
Knowing that action is the end of thought;
And thus from Nature bring thou precepts still
To guide thee nobly through this pilgrim world!
One deed wrought out in holiness and love
Is richer than all vain imaginings!
Let then her lore fulfil thee evermore,
And like high inspiration send thee forth
To prophecy aloud unto mankind
Of love, and peace, and verity sublime.
Let not disaster daunt thee, nor reproach,
No feeble yelpings of the toothless curs
That follow on the heels of all who walk
The highways of this world in faithfulness,
And strength, but like a wild swan on the wave
Let every billow swelling round thy breast
Raise thee in spirit nigher unto heaven!
In every page of Nature, from the flower
Man treads beneath him as he wanders past,
The humblest and the weakest thing of earth,
Yet with its sweet breath rising on the air
To make the fragrance of the summer full,
Up to the rattle of the thunder cloud,
The voice of heaven heard rolling through the spheres
Till earth is dumb and stricken at the sound;
Then let thy heart lean to them reverently,
Knowing that action is the end of thought;
And thus from Nature bring thou precepts still
To guide thee nobly through this pilgrim world!
One deed wrought out in holiness and love
Is richer than all vain imaginings!
Let then her lore fulfil thee evermore,
And like high inspiration send thee forth
To prophecy aloud unto mankind
Of love, and peace, and verity sublime.
Let not disaster daunt thee, nor reproach,
No feeble yelpings of the toothless curs
That follow on the heels of all who walk
The highways of this world in faithfulness,
And strength, but like a wild swan on the wave
Let every billow swelling round thy breast
Raise thee in spirit nigher unto heaven!
Scene. A Grove—Sunset.
Man.
O, Earth is beautiful! In such a scene
The everlasting curse that sin entailed
Strikes on the heart by contrast, as though heaven
Rolled back its portals till the holy wrath
Of God burst on Creation. All is still
Save the rapt nightingale, that sings to rest
Earth's warring multitudes, and this bright rill
Whose voice is eloquent as poesy.
The very breeze is hush'd that stirr'd the leaves
To pleasure, and the golden clouds float on
As though an angel steered them o'er the plain
Of heaven. It is a blessed thing to feel
The melody of silence in the woods,
When outer life is hushed, and in the heart
The echo of its murmurous sweetness sounds,
As in the pauses of a song the harp
Still vibrates. 'Tis a test by which the soul
Lies open unto Nature, for its frame,
Impure or guilty, unto discord turns
Those tones of peace and harmony. Perchance
These woods ne'er heard the voice of man till now,
Nor know the motion of his jarring thoughts.
I feel the weight of judgment o'er my head
If, Adam-like, I bring the brand of guilt
On this unfallen Paradise. In sooth
This scene is rich in Eden loveliness,
And peace, and the rude din of jabbering crowds
Unheard as when Earth's generations yet
Lay in the womb of Time. How soft the air
Breathes with the scent of flow'rs, o'er which the dew
Hangs like a charm of sweetness! Ah, fair Earth!
'Tis sad to die and leave thee e'en for heaven;
Yet the blue sky above is glorious,
And brings the spirit visions of bright scenes
Yet lovelier than this. There is a veil
Of dreamy beauty o'er it, from whose woof
The mystic star-eyes glimmer like a bride's.
In such an hour peace steals upon the soul,
Like the soft twilight o'er the toiling world;
There is no room for passion—strife would blush
As at the chiding of a gentle glance.
The everlasting curse that sin entailed
Strikes on the heart by contrast, as though heaven
Rolled back its portals till the holy wrath
Of God burst on Creation. All is still
Save the rapt nightingale, that sings to rest
Earth's warring multitudes, and this bright rill
Whose voice is eloquent as poesy.
The very breeze is hush'd that stirr'd the leaves
To pleasure, and the golden clouds float on
As though an angel steered them o'er the plain
Of heaven. It is a blessed thing to feel
The melody of silence in the woods,
When outer life is hushed, and in the heart
The echo of its murmurous sweetness sounds,
As in the pauses of a song the harp
Still vibrates. 'Tis a test by which the soul
Lies open unto Nature, for its frame,
Impure or guilty, unto discord turns
Those tones of peace and harmony. Perchance
These woods ne'er heard the voice of man till now,
Nor know the motion of his jarring thoughts.
I feel the weight of judgment o'er my head
If, Adam-like, I bring the brand of guilt
On this unfallen Paradise. In sooth
This scene is rich in Eden loveliness,
And peace, and the rude din of jabbering crowds
Unheard as when Earth's generations yet
Lay in the womb of Time. How soft the air
Breathes with the scent of flow'rs, o'er which the dew
Hangs like a charm of sweetness! Ah, fair Earth!
'Tis sad to die and leave thee e'en for heaven;
Yet the blue sky above is glorious,
And brings the spirit visions of bright scenes
Yet lovelier than this. There is a veil
Of dreamy beauty o'er it, from whose woof
The mystic star-eyes glimmer like a bride's.
In such an hour peace steals upon the soul,
Like the soft twilight o'er the toiling world;
There is no room for passion—strife would blush
As at the chiding of a gentle glance.
Spirit.
Eve brings forth bright thoughts from the soul, like stars
From the blue heavens. Its sweet serenity
Is as a boon of mercy from above,
Restoring rest unto a toil-doomed world.
Dost thou not turn from this to the pure calm
Of Heaven as by a spell?
From the blue heavens. Its sweet serenity
Is as a boon of mercy from above,
Restoring rest unto a toil-doomed world.
Dost thou not turn from this to the pure calm
Of Heaven as by a spell?
Man.
Ay! yonder cloud,
Bright with the last faint glances of the sun,
Bears my soul thither.
Bright with the last faint glances of the sun,
Bears my soul thither.
Spirit.
All the Beautiful
Points like the pilot-flower, magnetically,
To Heaven, where beauty is accomplish'd. Earth
Is but the reproduction of one form,
Whose perfectness is heaven, and thus the mind,
Unblinded by the blighting mist of sin,
Sees emblems of its everlasting hope
In Nature's loveliness. This quiet hour
When the calm'd heart cries truce unto itself,
And lays the weapons of resentment down,
And bitterness and anger, yields the bliss
That in completeness is the bliss of Heaven.
The Earth is ne'er so sweet as when it seems
By intuition to the soul like Heaven,
And in the spirit earthliness dissolves
Like mist before the sunshine.
Points like the pilot-flower, magnetically,
To Heaven, where beauty is accomplish'd. Earth
Is but the reproduction of one form,
Whose perfectness is heaven, and thus the mind,
Unblinded by the blighting mist of sin,
Sees emblems of its everlasting hope
In Nature's loveliness. This quiet hour
When the calm'd heart cries truce unto itself,
And lays the weapons of resentment down,
And bitterness and anger, yields the bliss
That in completeness is the bliss of Heaven.
The Earth is ne'er so sweet as when it seems
By intuition to the soul like Heaven,
And in the spirit earthliness dissolves
Like mist before the sunshine.
Man.
There's a power
Within the soul that makes it yearn to soar
Up to the Infinite, and, eagle-like,
Bask in the unveiled glory of the sun;
But this frame clogs its aspirations all,
Like gyves that press the struggling captive down.
Tell me of other worlds?
Within the soul that makes it yearn to soar
Up to the Infinite, and, eagle-like,
Bask in the unveiled glory of the sun;
But this frame clogs its aspirations all,
Like gyves that press the struggling captive down.
Tell me of other worlds?
Spirit.
There is a world
Bright as yon star that flecks the wing of night,
And sheds its glory o'er the Universe,
Made up of such pure loveliness within,
That like a gem it glistens through the crust,
And makes heaven luminous. A chasten'd sound
Of never failing melody still floats
About it, like an ocean, undulating
To the sweet breath of summer scented airs,
From hill to dale and leafy-tufted woods,
That catch the humours of the golden sun,
And deck them in his livery. There falls
From the soft twilight gloom of sparry grots,
And crystal pillar'd caverns, many a stream
That breaks in light and music on the soul,
And like a diamond-sandall'd spirit glides
In beauty through the land, margined by flowers
That mirror in its tide, and seem like stars
In heaven. There are flowers everywhere, in vale
Hill-side and woodland, in the sun and shade,
That whether dreams be on them, or they wake,
Send evermore sweet incense to the heavens.
Sun-crested mountains, softened into grace
By the blue tints of distance, lend new charms
To verdant swarded valleys, in whose lap
As in a mother's bosom, waters lie
And ripple to the wooing of the winds.
The very clouds that scan the blue of heaven,
Fused sometimes by the sunshine as with soul,
Or flaked by the light fancies of the gale,
Form to the vision labyrinths of grace
And beauty, that melt into space, and spread
A hemisphere of magic o'er the orb—
And thro' this world at morning, noon, and night,
A dreamy sweetness wanders, varying
From blessing unto blessing, that the sense
Of pleasure dull not with satiety.
Bright as yon star that flecks the wing of night,
And sheds its glory o'er the Universe,
Made up of such pure loveliness within,
That like a gem it glistens through the crust,
And makes heaven luminous. A chasten'd sound
Of never failing melody still floats
About it, like an ocean, undulating
To the sweet breath of summer scented airs,
From hill to dale and leafy-tufted woods,
That catch the humours of the golden sun,
And deck them in his livery. There falls
From the soft twilight gloom of sparry grots,
And crystal pillar'd caverns, many a stream
That breaks in light and music on the soul,
And like a diamond-sandall'd spirit glides
In beauty through the land, margined by flowers
That mirror in its tide, and seem like stars
In heaven. There are flowers everywhere, in vale
Hill-side and woodland, in the sun and shade,
That whether dreams be on them, or they wake,
Send evermore sweet incense to the heavens.
Sun-crested mountains, softened into grace
By the blue tints of distance, lend new charms
To verdant swarded valleys, in whose lap
As in a mother's bosom, waters lie
And ripple to the wooing of the winds.
The very clouds that scan the blue of heaven,
Fused sometimes by the sunshine as with soul,
Or flaked by the light fancies of the gale,
Form to the vision labyrinths of grace
And beauty, that melt into space, and spread
A hemisphere of magic o'er the orb—
And thro' this world at morning, noon, and night,
A dreamy sweetness wanders, varying
From blessing unto blessing, that the sense
Of pleasure dull not with satiety.
Man.
And it is habited?
Spirit.
By beings framed
After the model of all perfectness.
In some the majesty of strength sublime,
Rejoicing on the nervous power of life
Like the broad noontide sun, with glances bold
And open as the soul lies unto God,
And brows that thought wreathes with a glorious crown
Of fadeless immortality, which shines
Like lightning, playing round the arc of heaven.
And some there are as gentle and as fair
As flowers made animate, whose motions are
More graceful than the sweep of evening gales
O'er moonlit waters; and whose beauty fills
The air they breathe with sweetness, and to life
Is what the sunshine is to summer. All
Are filled with deathless spirits, capable
Of joy, and love, and holiness, that make,
Together, heaven's felicity. The strong,
Tho' they be trenchëd round with mighty thoughts,
Without one breach for weakness, in their souls
Feel the sweet want for love's pure tenderness,
That, like the dew, may soothe the eagle's breast,
And send it soaring nigher to the sun.
Thus to their lives they graft the fragile blossom,
Whose sweetness is an amulet to lay
Life's else perturbëd spirit; so that all
Have oneness of necessity and good.
After the model of all perfectness.
In some the majesty of strength sublime,
Rejoicing on the nervous power of life
Like the broad noontide sun, with glances bold
And open as the soul lies unto God,
And brows that thought wreathes with a glorious crown
Of fadeless immortality, which shines
Like lightning, playing round the arc of heaven.
And some there are as gentle and as fair
As flowers made animate, whose motions are
More graceful than the sweep of evening gales
O'er moonlit waters; and whose beauty fills
The air they breathe with sweetness, and to life
Is what the sunshine is to summer. All
Are filled with deathless spirits, capable
Of joy, and love, and holiness, that make,
Together, heaven's felicity. The strong,
Tho' they be trenchëd round with mighty thoughts,
Without one breach for weakness, in their souls
Feel the sweet want for love's pure tenderness,
That, like the dew, may soothe the eagle's breast,
And send it soaring nigher to the sun.
Thus to their lives they graft the fragile blossom,
Whose sweetness is an amulet to lay
Life's else perturbëd spirit; so that all
Have oneness of necessity and good.
Man.
O! I can compass spirit that could grasp
A star and dash it from its orbit, till
It flew through space eternally, and whelmed
Myriads of spheres in flaming ruin, yet
Cannot consummate that which is so light,
One hour's emancipation from this clod
To wander thro' such worlds. Which brightest orb
In heaven's wide treasury shines in thy tale?
A star and dash it from its orbit, till
It flew through space eternally, and whelmed
Myriads of spheres in flaming ruin, yet
Cannot consummate that which is so light,
One hour's emancipation from this clod
To wander thro' such worlds. Which brightest orb
In heaven's wide treasury shines in thy tale?
Spirit.
Listen! e'en in this paradise there works
A mighty power of evil, conjured there
By acts of foreknown consequence. This rears
A standard of rebellion against God,
And whirls a giddy tide of interest
And pleasure to suck souls unto itself,
The centre—dashing sorrow like salt foam
To sterilize humanity. Yet still
There is a virtue, given to make its guiles
Shrink into ruin, like a withered leaf,
And pass the spirit scatheless. 'Tis a strife
Of spirit against spirit, whose result
Of loss or gain fashions eternity.
A mighty power of evil, conjured there
By acts of foreknown consequence. This rears
A standard of rebellion against God,
And whirls a giddy tide of interest
And pleasure to suck souls unto itself,
The centre—dashing sorrow like salt foam
To sterilize humanity. Yet still
There is a virtue, given to make its guiles
Shrink into ruin, like a withered leaf,
And pass the spirit scatheless. 'Tis a strife
Of spirit against spirit, whose result
Of loss or gain fashions eternity.
Man.
O! it is fine to brace the spirit up,
To struggle with its foes, and feel it swell
Till it could shake a thousand demons off
As lightly as a lion doth the drops
That eve sheds on him. There's no joy like that
Of danger met, and danger overcome.
The soul is like a sword that rusts to lie
Inglorious in its scabbard, but will flash
Bright as the lightning in the battle field.
Spirit! will death transport to such a world?
To struggle with its foes, and feel it swell
Till it could shake a thousand demons off
As lightly as a lion doth the drops
That eve sheds on him. There's no joy like that
Of danger met, and danger overcome.
The soul is like a sword that rusts to lie
Inglorious in its scabbard, but will flash
Bright as the lightning in the battle field.
Spirit! will death transport to such a world?
Spirit.
Thou art upon it—It is earth—Itself
All lovely, but man's soul so warped and blind
He scarce can see her beauty, but still scans
The stars of heaven for that which lies displayed
Beneath his feet. The heart rears phantoms up
To overthrow reality, and make
Intention stand for Act. 'Tis well to boast
Of spirit warfare in another sphere,
Yet like a craven slight the trumpet call
That bids man up and strive in this. In life
There is a struggle evermore, wherein
The spirit grapples with such subtle foes,
That victory is glory infinite.
No crumbling stone to whet ambition on,
That 'neath the sapping of one wave of Time,
Melts to the substance of oblivion.
It is nobility to walk through life
With a stout heart and cheerful courage on—
To look on sorrow with undaunted mien,
And smile away the fears that trouble brings—
To bear unto the stricken solace sweet
As water to the wounded, and to be
A strength and an assurance to the weak.
Ay! life, like matter, is atomic, and
Man blows unto the winds what multiplied
Makes up the universe. This radiant earth,
Which, in its penitential moods the heart
Feels were a paradise if guilt were not,
Sprung from the womb of space, in perfectness
Co-equal with the fairest orb that holds
Vice-royalty in heaven for the sun;
Form, substance, seeming, and that vivid charm
Which is the soul of matter like in each.
Mind differs only, making fair seem dull
With what it glances through, and thus yon star
Viewed with man's callous nature, would resolve
Into reality as cold as Earth.
All lovely, but man's soul so warped and blind
He scarce can see her beauty, but still scans
The stars of heaven for that which lies displayed
Beneath his feet. The heart rears phantoms up
To overthrow reality, and make
Intention stand for Act. 'Tis well to boast
Of spirit warfare in another sphere,
Yet like a craven slight the trumpet call
That bids man up and strive in this. In life
There is a struggle evermore, wherein
The spirit grapples with such subtle foes,
That victory is glory infinite.
No crumbling stone to whet ambition on,
That 'neath the sapping of one wave of Time,
Melts to the substance of oblivion.
It is nobility to walk through life
With a stout heart and cheerful courage on—
To look on sorrow with undaunted mien,
And smile away the fears that trouble brings—
To bear unto the stricken solace sweet
As water to the wounded, and to be
A strength and an assurance to the weak.
Ay! life, like matter, is atomic, and
Man blows unto the winds what multiplied
Makes up the universe. This radiant earth,
Which, in its penitential moods the heart
Feels were a paradise if guilt were not,
Sprung from the womb of space, in perfectness
Co-equal with the fairest orb that holds
Vice-royalty in heaven for the sun;
Form, substance, seeming, and that vivid charm
Which is the soul of matter like in each.
Mind differs only, making fair seem dull
With what it glances through, and thus yon star
Viewed with man's callous nature, would resolve
Into reality as cold as Earth.
O Earth! thou Beauty! and thou Wonderful!
That from thy bosom like a living womb
Bringest all forms of loveliness and grace
Into the gladness of the summer air—
That givest to the winds that are the breath
And heaving of thy passion, wingëd thoughts
To root, seed-like, into the ground, and spring,
Bud, blossom, nourish'd ever by young showers,
And moon-distillëd dews, until they make
Thine utterance odorous. That from thy soul,
As from an unseen presence of divinest light,
Dartest into the spirit subtle rays
That quicken life to blessing, as the breath
Of being stirreth the inanimate,
Making existence joy, and love, and power.
O woods! and rustling forests! Ye that send
Soft murmurs ever to the ends of heaven,
And from your breast, as from a poet's soul,
Issue all sweetest melodies of birds
And leafy eloquence. O springs! and streams!
Blithe hearted wanderers throughout the earth,
Tracing your footsteps still with flowers that rise
Like stars beneath the feet of Night. O hills!
O mighty mountains! round whose hoary brows
Gather the mystic clouds of heaven, like thoughts
Of unimagined wisdom, that are rocked
To slumber by the deep-songed hurricanes,
Sons of Destruction, and whose waking voice
Is the eternal thunder. O wide ocean!
Swelling for ever with the mighty throes
Of Nature's agony and ceaseless Act;
Emblem of Time and of Eternity!
Time the great worker, the Implacable,
That with the roll of human will and deed,
And hopes, and joys, and shatter'd purposes
Dashes relentless on! Eternity—
The Pauseless, the Insatiate! the gulf
Whereto all motion, all existence flows,
Enters and ends. O sunshine! and cool shade,
And all that makes earth beautiful and sweet!
Soft moonlight! life's pure maidenhood, whose dreams
Are gleams of antenatal blessedness,
Witness for Earth's equality, and bid
The sister orbs of heaven cry "Hail!" to her.
That from thy bosom like a living womb
Bringest all forms of loveliness and grace
Into the gladness of the summer air—
That givest to the winds that are the breath
And heaving of thy passion, wingëd thoughts
To root, seed-like, into the ground, and spring,
Bud, blossom, nourish'd ever by young showers,
And moon-distillëd dews, until they make
Thine utterance odorous. That from thy soul,
As from an unseen presence of divinest light,
Dartest into the spirit subtle rays
That quicken life to blessing, as the breath
Of being stirreth the inanimate,
Making existence joy, and love, and power.
O woods! and rustling forests! Ye that send
Soft murmurs ever to the ends of heaven,
And from your breast, as from a poet's soul,
Issue all sweetest melodies of birds
And leafy eloquence. O springs! and streams!
Blithe hearted wanderers throughout the earth,
Tracing your footsteps still with flowers that rise
Like stars beneath the feet of Night. O hills!
O mighty mountains! round whose hoary brows
Gather the mystic clouds of heaven, like thoughts
Of unimagined wisdom, that are rocked
To slumber by the deep-songed hurricanes,
Sons of Destruction, and whose waking voice
Is the eternal thunder. O wide ocean!
Swelling for ever with the mighty throes
Of Nature's agony and ceaseless Act;
Emblem of Time and of Eternity!
Time the great worker, the Implacable,
That with the roll of human will and deed,
And hopes, and joys, and shatter'd purposes
Dashes relentless on! Eternity—
The Pauseless, the Insatiate! the gulf
Whereto all motion, all existence flows,
Enters and ends. O sunshine! and cool shade,
And all that makes earth beautiful and sweet!
Soft moonlight! life's pure maidenhood, whose dreams
Are gleams of antenatal blessedness,
Witness for Earth's equality, and bid
The sister orbs of heaven cry "Hail!" to her.
Man.
O Mother Earth! methinks I hear a voice
Sound 'mid the surging of the stars of heaven,
Like a clear trump athwart the mighty roar
Of falling waters.
"Oh thou beautiful,
"Frail daughter of Immensity! that hangest
"Upon the bosom of dim night, at once
"A glory, and a brightness, and a shame—
"That from the urn of everlasting love
"Drinkest of light and immortality,
"Like a fair child in waywardness and mirth,
"Triumphing in her loveliness; the swell
"Of thy rapt harmonies is mute in heaven,
"That once rang through the arches of all space,
"A wonder and an ecstasy; but still
"Thy path is with the glorious and pure,
"Spanning the empyrean with a jewelled zone,
"Making heaven beautiful, and with thy grace
"Charming to goodness, though thou act it not.
"Arise, O lovely fondling of the skies!
"Wake from the silence of thy fallen doom,
"Breathe forth thy sweetness to the longing air;
"The angels are about thee evermore,
"Like watchers o'er a stricken one, that hold
"A glass to catch the life-mist from her lips.
"Arise! and don thy bridal vestments pure,
"And lead the train of heaven to the morn!
"Art thou not beautiful, Daughter of Heaven?—
"Beautiful as a bride before the sun,
"Gliding along the blue serene of space,
"Pensive and glorious; showering soft light
"Upon the path of heaven, as from the eyes
"Of downward-glancing cherubim. Arise!
"Stand in the light of lights, and bare thy soul
"Unto the searching of the undimmed spheres!"
Sound 'mid the surging of the stars of heaven,
Like a clear trump athwart the mighty roar
Of falling waters.
"Oh thou beautiful,
"Frail daughter of Immensity! that hangest
"Upon the bosom of dim night, at once
"A glory, and a brightness, and a shame—
"That from the urn of everlasting love
"Drinkest of light and immortality,
"Like a fair child in waywardness and mirth,
"Triumphing in her loveliness; the swell
"Of thy rapt harmonies is mute in heaven,
"That once rang through the arches of all space,
"A wonder and an ecstasy; but still
"Thy path is with the glorious and pure,
"Spanning the empyrean with a jewelled zone,
"Making heaven beautiful, and with thy grace
"Charming to goodness, though thou act it not.
"Arise, O lovely fondling of the skies!
"Wake from the silence of thy fallen doom,
"Breathe forth thy sweetness to the longing air;
"The angels are about thee evermore,
"Like watchers o'er a stricken one, that hold
"A glass to catch the life-mist from her lips.
"Arise! and don thy bridal vestments pure,
"And lead the train of heaven to the morn!
"Art thou not beautiful, Daughter of Heaven?—
"Beautiful as a bride before the sun,
"Gliding along the blue serene of space,
"Pensive and glorious; showering soft light
"Upon the path of heaven, as from the eyes
"Of downward-glancing cherubim. Arise!
"Stand in the light of lights, and bare thy soul
"Unto the searching of the undimmed spheres!"
O, Spirit! are there angels hovering now
In the dim ocean of this twilight air?
In the dim ocean of this twilight air?
Spirit.
There are pure angels ever round the earth,
As stars are round the azure dome of heaven,
In sunshine and in twilight and in gloom,
That with the sweetness of an unseen love
Circle humanity, and like the lark
Hid in the glory of the noonday sun,
Pour o'er the world heaven's constant tenderness.
Some in the soft-hued glimmering of dreams,
Through the unfolded lattices of sleep,
Steal to the soul in visions of delight,
Pure and benignant as the evening dew
That cools the bosom of the blushing rose.
Some all unseen, save in the blessed care,
That like a lover's arm, from life's rough way
Presses the serried thorns that choke it up;
But all as with an atmosphere of love,
And peace and strength encircling man, alike
Within him and without, that the foul breath
Of pestilent corruption touch him not.
Some are there who have loved and suffered much
For earth, as a fond mother doth who sees
Her babe die in her bosom; who have traced
Man to the precipital brink of ruin,
With open arms to charm him back from death,
Rejected and despised; who on the scroll
Of conscience, as with words of living light,
Stamp the pure precepts of a holy lore,
That sin obliterates and sets at naught.
As stars are round the azure dome of heaven,
In sunshine and in twilight and in gloom,
That with the sweetness of an unseen love
Circle humanity, and like the lark
Hid in the glory of the noonday sun,
Pour o'er the world heaven's constant tenderness.
Some in the soft-hued glimmering of dreams,
Through the unfolded lattices of sleep,
Steal to the soul in visions of delight,
Pure and benignant as the evening dew
That cools the bosom of the blushing rose.
Some all unseen, save in the blessed care,
That like a lover's arm, from life's rough way
Presses the serried thorns that choke it up;
But all as with an atmosphere of love,
And peace and strength encircling man, alike
Within him and without, that the foul breath
Of pestilent corruption touch him not.
Some are there who have loved and suffered much
For earth, as a fond mother doth who sees
Her babe die in her bosom; who have traced
Man to the precipital brink of ruin,
With open arms to charm him back from death,
Rejected and despised; who on the scroll
Of conscience, as with words of living light,
Stamp the pure precepts of a holy lore,
That sin obliterates and sets at naught.
Man.
Oh! how polluted must man's spirit show
In contrast with these ministers of heaven,
That e'en beneath frail woman's purity
Dims like a taper 'neath the light of day!—
Methinks if from our eyes sin's blindness fell,
And gave pure angels to our ravish'd sight,
Gliding around us clad in the bright robes
Of love and immortality, this earth
Would be like heaven. O! 'twere a blessed change,
And perfect as when Death's exulting sigh
Swoons through the empty chambers of the soul
His note of liberty.
In contrast with these ministers of heaven,
That e'en beneath frail woman's purity
Dims like a taper 'neath the light of day!—
Methinks if from our eyes sin's blindness fell,
And gave pure angels to our ravish'd sight,
Gliding around us clad in the bright robes
Of love and immortality, this earth
Would be like heaven. O! 'twere a blessed change,
And perfect as when Death's exulting sigh
Swoons through the empty chambers of the soul
His note of liberty.
Spirit.
'Tis man alone
Makes Earth less Paradise; its frame is full
Of perfect blessedness, which to the pure
Were Heaven in all its fulness; but mankind
Are crimsoned o'er with sin, which like blood-stains
A soundless ocean could not cleanse away.
And thus all flesh must thaw back to the dust
From which it sprang, as ice doth unto water,
Before the soul is purified for heaven.
Men little dream how near heaven is to them
In possibility, how far in deed.
As little as they dream amid their mirth,
Death stalks beside them; that his shadow falls
In the same mirror where the maiden sees
The image of her loveliness, and flits
Amongst the whirl of revelry and show.
Makes Earth less Paradise; its frame is full
Of perfect blessedness, which to the pure
Were Heaven in all its fulness; but mankind
Are crimsoned o'er with sin, which like blood-stains
A soundless ocean could not cleanse away.
And thus all flesh must thaw back to the dust
From which it sprang, as ice doth unto water,
Before the soul is purified for heaven.
Men little dream how near heaven is to them
In possibility, how far in deed.
As little as they dream amid their mirth,
Death stalks beside them; that his shadow falls
In the same mirror where the maiden sees
The image of her loveliness, and flits
Amongst the whirl of revelry and show.
Scene. A rock overhanging the Sea.
Man.
A rock and the wild waters! 'Tis a spot
To moralize on life, and strip the world
Of all its gaudy trappings and false gloss,
That like the daubing on a wanton's cheek,
Crimsons the paleness of disease and shame,
And with life's semblance mocks a rotten heart.
To moralize on life, and strip the world
Of all its gaudy trappings and false gloss,
That like the daubing on a wanton's cheek,
Crimsons the paleness of disease and shame,
And with life's semblance mocks a rotten heart.
O wild, wild sea! eternal wilderness
Of strife and toil and fruitless energy!
Birthplace and Tomb! whence unto being spring
Successive myriads to run their race,
Rage, labour, and grow hoar, then pass away
With all their deeds and memories, and cede
Their petty sphere of inches to another.
O wild, wild sea! thou bosom of all passion,
And thought, and hope, and longing infinite!
That struggling ever from the riven caves,
And fathomless abysses of the Earth,
As from the cells of an awakened soul,
Fling your hoarse murmurs and aspiring groans
To the strong wingëd winds, that puff them on
In sport and in derision; that art stirred
To tumult and to madness by the breath
Of unseen currents, unsubstantial air,
That passes on, and leaves a foaming train
To wonder at the thing that angered them.
O wild, wild sea! soul of indifference!
Lashing eternally the rifted sands
And lonely shores about ye; swallowing
The wreck of man's dependence, and the life
That struggles with ye for the prize of love,
And joy, and sorrow, clinging round its soul;
That flowest on in coldness and self-aim
O'er the dissolving frames of countless waves,
That sink like generations, and so rise,
Pausing or stilling never, numb'ring up
A myriad selfish interests to make
Thy sum of being perfect. Man may read
The lore of human nature in thee, writ
Not with the pen of flattery, that gilds
The base past recognition, but all plain
And coloured only by its truthfulness;
The good and ill alike displayed, that lie
Within the sounding of its inmost soul.
O! thought might wander o'er this briny waste,
Dove-like, without one Ark whereon to rest
From the interminable ebb and flow,
As many a soul has flutter'd o'er the earth,
Weary and faint, as mine did till it found
A haven in the bosom of sweet love.
Of strife and toil and fruitless energy!
Birthplace and Tomb! whence unto being spring
Successive myriads to run their race,
Rage, labour, and grow hoar, then pass away
With all their deeds and memories, and cede
Their petty sphere of inches to another.
O wild, wild sea! thou bosom of all passion,
And thought, and hope, and longing infinite!
That struggling ever from the riven caves,
And fathomless abysses of the Earth,
As from the cells of an awakened soul,
Fling your hoarse murmurs and aspiring groans
To the strong wingëd winds, that puff them on
In sport and in derision; that art stirred
To tumult and to madness by the breath
Of unseen currents, unsubstantial air,
That passes on, and leaves a foaming train
To wonder at the thing that angered them.
O wild, wild sea! soul of indifference!
Lashing eternally the rifted sands
And lonely shores about ye; swallowing
The wreck of man's dependence, and the life
That struggles with ye for the prize of love,
And joy, and sorrow, clinging round its soul;
That flowest on in coldness and self-aim
O'er the dissolving frames of countless waves,
That sink like generations, and so rise,
Pausing or stilling never, numb'ring up
A myriad selfish interests to make
Thy sum of being perfect. Man may read
The lore of human nature in thee, writ
Not with the pen of flattery, that gilds
The base past recognition, but all plain
And coloured only by its truthfulness;
The good and ill alike displayed, that lie
Within the sounding of its inmost soul.
O! thought might wander o'er this briny waste,
Dove-like, without one Ark whereon to rest
From the interminable ebb and flow,
As many a soul has flutter'd o'er the earth,
Weary and faint, as mine did till it found
A haven in the bosom of sweet love.