Love, beautiful and boundless Love—oh! who shall hymn thy praise? Who shall exalt thy hallow'd name with fitting anthem-lays? When shall thy workings all be seen—thy power all reveal'd? Oh who shall count thy fairy steps upon earth's rugged field?
There are few things of gloom that meet our Sorrow or our Hate, Where Love and Beauty have not once been portion of their state; Few things are seen in charmless guise that shutteth out all trace Of God's infinitude of Joy, of Purity, and Grace.
There's not a palsied ruin bows its patriarchal head, Which has not rung with Triumph-shouts while Revel-banquets spread; There's not a desolated hearth but where the cheerful pile Of blazing logs has sparkled, and the cricket sung the while.
The broken mandolin that lies in silent, slow decay, Has quicken'd many a gentle pulse that heard its measures play; The stagnant pool that taints and kills the mallow and the rush, Has filter'd through the silver clouds and cool'd the rainbow's flush.
There's not a dark, dull coffin-board but what has stood to bear A swarm of summer warblers in the mellow greenwood air; There's not a thread of cerecloth but has held its blossom-bells, And swung the morning pearls about within the fragrant wells.
Love lurketh round us everywhere—it fills the great design; It gives the soul its chosen mate—it loads the autumn vine; It dyes the orchard branches red—it folds the worm in silk; It rears the daisy where we tread, and bringeth corn and milk.
Love stirreth in our beings all unbidden and unknown; With aspirations leaping up, like fountains from the stone; It prompts the great and noble deeds that nations hail with pride; It moveth when we grieve to miss an old dog from our side.
It bids us plant the sapling, to be green when we are gray, It pointeth to the Future, and yet blesses while we stay; It opens the Almighty page, where, though 'tis held afar, We read enough to lure us on still higher than we are.
The child at play upon the sward, who runs to snatch a flower, With earnest passion in his glee that glorifies the hour— The doting student, pale and meek, who looks into the night, Dreaming of all that helps the soul to gauge Eternal might;—
The rude, bold savage, pouring forth his homage to the sun, Asking for other "hunting-fields" when life's long chase is run— The poet-boy who sitteth down upon the upland grass; Whose eagle thoughts are nestled by the Zephyr wings that pass;—
The weak old man that creepeth out once more before he dies, With longing wish to see and feel the sunlight in his eyes;— Oh! these are the unerring types that Nature setteth up, To tell that an elixir drop yet sanctifies our cup.
Love, beautiful and boundless Love! thou dwellest here below, Teaching the human lip to smile-the violet to blow; Thine is the breath ethereal that yet exhales and burns In sinful breasts, as incense steals from dim, unsightly urns.
Thou art the holy, record seal that Time can ne'er annul; The dove amid the vulture tribe—the lamp within the skull— Thou art the one bright Spirit Thing that is not bought and sold; The cherub elve that laugheth in the giant face of Gold.
Love—exquisite, undying Love—runs through Creation's span, Gushing from countless springs to fill the ocean heart of Man; And there it broadly rolleth on in deep unfathom'd flood; Swelling with the Immortal Hope that craveth more of "Good."
It is the rich, magnetic spark yet shining in the dust; The fair salvation ray of Faith that wins our joyful trust; The watchword of the Infinite, left here to lead above; That's ever seen and ever heard, and tells us "God is Love."
