From the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” Canto III. AND said I that my limbs were old, And said I that my blood was cold, And that my kindly fire was fled, And my poor withered heart was dead, And that I might not sing of love?— How could I, to the dearest theme That ever warmed a minstrel’s dream, So foul, so false a recreant prove! How could I name love’s very name, Nor wake my heart to notes of flame! In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed; In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen; In hamlets, dances on the green. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above; For love is heaven, and heaven is love. True love’s the gift which God has given To man alone beneath the heaven; It is not fantasy’s hot fire, Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly; It liveth not in fierce desire, With dead desire it doth not die; It is the secret sympathy, The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, In body and in soul can bind.
Love
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