II.— Love's Really.

I walk, I trust, with open eyes; I've travell'd half my worldly course; And in the way behind me lies Much vanity and some remorse; I've lived to feel how pride may part Spirits, tho' match'd like hand and glove; I've blush'd for love's abode, the heart; But have not disbelieved in love; Nor unto love, sole mortal thing Of worth immortal, done the wrong To count it, with the rest that sing, Unworthy of a serious song; And love is my reward; for now, When most of dead'ning time complain, The myrtle blooms upon my brow, Its odour quickens all my brain.