1 62 love's meinie. 



And whence arose Love ? 



Go, ask of the Dove, 



Or behold how the Titmouse, unresting, 

 Still early and late 

 Ever sings by his mate, 

 72 To lighten her labours of nesting. 



Their bonds never gall, 



Though the leaves shoot, and fall, 

 And the seasons roll round in their course. 

 For their marriage, each year, 



Grows more lovely and dear ; 

 78 And they know not decrees of Divorce. 



That these things are truth 



We have learned from our youth, 

 For our hearts to our customs incline. 

 As the rivers that roll 



From, the fount of our soul, 

 84 Immortal, unchanging, divine. 



Man, simple and old, 



In his ages of gold. 

 Derived from our teaching true light, 

 And deemed it his praise 



In his ancestors' ways 

 90 To govern his footsteps aright. 



76. Each year. I doubt the fact ; and too sadly suspect 

 that birds take different mates. What a question to have to 

 ask at this time of day and year ! 



82. Rivers. Read slowly. The 'customs' are rivers 

 that 'go on for ever' flowing from the fount of the soul. 

 The Heart drinks of them, as of waterbrooks. 



