26 MARCH 1870, Page 16

POETRY.

A HOPE.

"WHAT end bath Love,—Love that is Love indeed,—

Greater than love of love or love's sweet aid ?

If she be wounded, how her heart doth bleed!

Would she not gladly die, such wound being made ?

She is so tender ! Like the sharp frost's chill She feels ill-fortune, parting, deeds unkind.

Mistrust, and change, weakness and sin must kill."

":Nay! Even these scarce pierce Love's inmost mind.

She ever hopes that these will pass away, Like phantoms we may fight with all the night, In the full sunshine of the perfect day.

So, too, of death." "What end then?" "All thy might Invoke, 0 Soul! to dare thy longest flight !

Love herself hopes that she is infinite."