Love

There is a spirit all divine,
     Which raises man above the sod;
With heavenly radiance it doth shine,
     The gentlest attribute of God.

It hath to mortal man been given, 
     And fills the angel-choirs above;
It forms the sweetest song in heaven—
     That spirit is undying love.

Not the mad transports of an hour, 
     When reason quits his regal throne, 
And passion, with unbridled power, 
     Rules with a sceptre all her own,—

But 'tis that spirit that doth urge 
     The meek disciples of their Lord 
To wander to earth's farthest verge, 
     To bear the blessings of his word.

For this they breast the northern clime, 
     Where cold and stern the tempest blows;
Or on the mountain-peak sublime,
     The sunbeams gild the eternal snows.

For this they trace o'er torrid sands, 
     Their path, beneath the burning line,
Where Afric's dark benighted bands
     Kneel at their idols' bloody shrine.

Oppression cannot quench that love;
     Its flame is holy and divine, 
Lit at the altar-fires above,
     Undimmed, eternally to shine.

What though the torturous fires may stream 
     Heaven-ward with red and fearful light!
And the assassin's dagger gleam
     Dim through the gloom at noon of night!

In vain the stake, in vain the blade;
     That love shall urge the martyrs on;
On Faith's strong arm their spirits stayed,
     Until its triumphs shall be won.

That spirit shall for aye go forth, 
     Till universal peace shall reign, 
And violence shall cease on earth, 
     And joy fill all the world again.