Not the fierce-destroying power
Of the hot sirocco’s breath,
Withering every tender flower,
Strewing all its path with death
Or helpless, silent sorrow.
’Tis a strength that holds each feeling
But a slave to do its will—
Every wish, abjectly kneeling,
Waits its mandate to fulfill
Or creeps, by stealth, in shadow.
’Tis Life’s sacred, golden chalice,
From as rich a vintage filled
For the cottage, as the palace—
Sweetest draughts have been distilled
With want upon the lever.
’Tis a tender, true devotion,
Never soiled by thoughts of pelf,
But with gladsome, sweet emotion
To its altar bringing self,
A sacrificial offering.—
Joy’s bell whose silver ringing
Down the ages has been borne
Ever since in Eden, singing,
Wedded love hailed rosy morn—
Still the tones fall sweet as ever.
’Tis the Horeb of the spirit,
Where no coarse-shod thought may tread,
The part divine, which souls inherit
From love’s holy Fountain-Head,
Influent with our being.