Poems (Cook)/Love on

by Eliza Cook

LOVE ON.

Love on, love on, the soul must have a shrine—
 The rudest breast must find some hallow'd spot;
The One who form'd us left no spark divine
 In him who dwells on earth, yet loveth not.
Devotion's links compose a sacred chain
 Of holy brightness and unmeasured length;
The world with selfish rust and reckless stain
 May mar its beauty, but not touch its strength.

Love on, love on—ay, even though the heart
 We fondly build on proveth like the sand;
Though one by one Faith's corner-stones depart;
 And even Hope's last pillar fails to stand:
Though we may dread the lips we once believed,
 And know their falsehood shadows all our days;
Who would not rather trust and be deceived,
 Than own the mean, cold spirit that betrays?

Love on, love on, though we may live to see
 The dear face whiter than its circling shroud;
Though dark and dense the gloom of Death may be,
 Affection's glory yet shall pierce the cloud.
The truest spell that Heaven can give to lure,
 The sweetest prospect Mercy can bestow;
Is the blest thought that bids the soul be sure
 'Twill meet above the things it loved below.

Love on, love on—Creation breathes the words—
 Their mystic music ever dwells around;
The strain is echoed by unnumber'd chords,
 And gentlest bosoms yield the fullest sound.
As flowers keep springing though their dazzling bloom
 Is oft put forth for worms to feed upon,
So hearts, though wrung by traitors and the tomb,
 Shall still be precious, and shall still love on.