From the BOOK OF LOVE

                              I 
 
           Take all, take all these songs from me 
                   That Love at your feet humbly lays, 
           Where, in the Lyre's full melody, 
                   Soul freely nears in shining rays. 
           Oh! if Song's echo potent be 
                   To stir to longing with sweet lays, 
           To make the pulse throb passionately 
                   That your proud heart sublimely sways, 
           Then shall I witness from afar 
                   How Victory bears you light along, 
           Then shall I fight, more bold by far, 
           Then shall my music soar the higher; 
                   Transformed, more free shall ring my song, 
           And in sweet woe shall weep my Lyre. 
                
 
                                  II 
                                
           To me, no Fame terrestrial 
                   That travels far through land and nation 
           To hold them thrillingly in thrall 
                   With its far-flung reverberation 
           Is worth your eyes, when shining full, 
                   Your heart, when warm with exultation, 
           Or two deep-welling tears that fall,  
                   Wrung from your eyes by song's emotion. 
           Gladly I'd breathe my Soul away 
                   In the Lyre's deep melodious sighs, 
           And would a very Master die, 
           Could I the exalted goal attain, 
                   Could I but win the fairest prize -- 
           To soothe in you both joy and pain. 
 
 
                                  III 
 
           Ah! Now these pages forth may fly, 
                   Approach you, trembling, once again, 
           My spirits lowered utterly 
                   By foolish fears and parting's pain. 
           My self-deluding fancies stray 
                   Along the boldest paths in vain; 
           I cannot win what is most High, 
                   And soon no more hope shall remain. 
           When I return from distant places 
                   To that dear home, filled with desire, 
           A spouse holds you in his embraces, 
           And clasps you proudly, Fairest One. 
               Then o'er me rolls the lightning's fire 
           Of misery and oblivion. 
 
 
                                  IV 
 
           Forgive that, boldly risking scorn 
                   The Soul's deep yearning to confess, 
           The singer's lips must hotly burn 
                   To waft the flames of his distress. 
           Can I against myself then turn 
                   And lose myself, dumb, comfortless, 
           The very name of singer spurn, 
                   Not love you, having seen your face? 
           So high the Soul's illusions aspire, 
                   O'er me you stand magnificent; 
           'Tis but your tears that I desire, 
           And that my songs you only enjoyed 
                   To lend them grace and ornament; 
           Then may they flee into the Void! 
            
 
                                    *