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 Yet, is that halo of the soul?— Or is it, as may sure be said, Phosphoric exhalation bred Of vapour, steaming from the bed Of Fancy's brook, or Passion's river? So when, as will be by-and-bye, The stream is waterless and dry, This halo and its hues will die; And though the soul contented rest With those substantial blessings blest, Will not a longing, half-confest, Betray that this is not the love, The gift for which all gifts above Him praise we, Who is Love, the giver?

I cannot say—the things are good: Bread is it, if not angels' food; But Love? Alas! I cannot say; A glory on the vision lay; A light of more than mortal day About it played, upon it rested; It did not, faltering and weak, Beg Reason on its side to speak: Itself was Reason, or, if not, Such substitute as is, I wot, Of seraph-kind the loftier lot;—