SPIRIT OF LOVE.

Ye gentle ministers, ye have done well, But 'tis for love that most the poet pineth, And till I spell him with my magic spell, In vain for him earth smiles or heaven shineth. Behold I touch his heart, and there upspring Blooms to his cheeks, and flashes to his eyes; His scornful lips upon the instant sing, And all his pulses leap with ecstasies. 'Tis love the poet wants; he cannot live Without caressing and without caress, Which all to charity his fellows give; But I will wrap his soul in tenderness, And straightway from his lips will burst a song All loving hearts shall echo and prolong.