'Tis borne on the zephyr at eventide's hour,
And falls on the heart like the dew on the flower—
An infinite essence from tropic to pole,
The substance, the home and the heaven of Soul.
Love reigns over all—at the altar or bower—
It binds with sweet fetters in strange pride of power,
And comes through our tears as the soft summer rain
To beautify, bless and make happy again.
The harp of the minstrel, the hope of all time,
A rainbow of rapture, o'erarching, divine,
The terrible mandate that speaks from above—
No place for earth's idols and yet we must love.
