RECORDS OF A HEART. 163 



Its fondness as wide as the limitless wave, 



And chilled by nought but the cold dark grave ; 



In devotion, as humble as that which brings 



To his idol the Indian's offerings, 



Yet proud as that which the priestess feels, 



When feeding the flame of the shrine where she kneels ; — 



Oh ! knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ? 



Such ever has been in my heart for thee. 



Oh ! knowest thou the love of the poet's soul, 



Of the mind that from Heaven one bright spark stole. — 



Where the gush of song, like the life-blood, springs 



Unchecked from the heart, while the spirit's wings 



Are nerved anew in a loftier flight, 



To seek for its idol a crown of light ; 



When the visions which wake beneath fancy's beam 



But serve to brighten an earthly dream ; — 



Oh ! knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ? 



Such long has been in my heart for thee. 



Oh ! tell me, then, can such love decay, 

 Like the sapless weed in the morning ray ? 

 Can the love of earlier brighter years 

 Be chased away like an infant's tears ? 

 Can the long-tried faith of a woman's heart. 

 Like a summer bird from its nest depart ? 

 Can affection, nursed amid poesy's bowers, 

 Find deadly herbs in those fragrant flowers ?— 

 Oh no ! believe not such things can be, — 

 Such end awaits not my love for thee. 



Was there ever a more buoyant, joyous, yet deep and fervent 

 tone of feeling, than rings out in these verses ? I speak not 



