Light of Love

Fair, as the first blown rose—but O! as fleeting,
Soft, as the down upon a cygnet's breast,
Sweet, as the air, when gales and flowers are meeting,
Bright, as the jewel on a sultan's vest,
Dear, as the infant smiling when caressed,
Mild, as the wind, at dawn in April, blowing,
Calm, as the innocent heart—and O! as blest,
Pure, as the spring from mountain granite flowing,
Gay, as the tulip in its starred bed glowing,
As clouds, that curtain round the west at even,
O'er earth a canopy of glory throwing,
And heralding the radiant path to heaven.

Sweet, as the sound, when waves, in calm, retreating,
Roll back, in gurgling ripples from the shore,
When in the curling well still waters meeting,
Clear, from the spout, the molten crystal pour;
Sweet, as at distance heard the cascade's roar,
Or ocean on the lone rock faintly dashing,
Or dying thunders, when the storm is o'er,
And dim seen lightnings far away are flashing;
Sweet, as when spring is garlanding the trees,
The birds in all the flush of life are singing,
And as the light leaves twinkle in the breeze,
The woods with melody and joy are ringing,
When beds of mint and flowering fields of clover
Are redolent of nature's balmiest store,
And the cool wind, from rivers, hurries over
And gathers sweets, that Hybla never bore.

Fair, as the cloudless moon o'er night presiding,
When earth, and sea, and air are hushed and still,
Along the burning dome of nature riding,
Crowning with liquid lustre rock and hill,
Pencilling with her silver beam the rill,
That o'er the wave-worn marble falling plays,
Sheeting with light the cascade at the mill,
And paving ocean with her tremulous rays,
Through the closed lids of dewy violets stealing,
And gemming, with clear drops, the mead and grove;
Such is the light, the native heart of feeling
Throws round the stainless object of his love.