After reading all that has been written, and after thinking all that can be thought, on the topics of God and the soul, the man who has a right to say that he thinks at all, will find himself face to face with the conclusion that, on these topics, the most profound thought is that which can be the least easily distinguished from the most superficial sentiment.
[LOVE.]
BY R. H. STODDARD.
Oh Love! thou art a fallen child of light,
A ruined seraph in a world of care—
Tortured and wrung by sorrow and despair,
And longings for the beautiful and bright:
Thy brow is deeply scarred, and bleeds beneath
A spiked coronet, a thorny wreath;
Thy rainbow wings are rent and torn with chains,
Sullied and drooping in extremest wo;
Thy dower, to those who love thee best below,
Is tears and torture, agony and pains,
Coldness and scorn and doubt which often parts;—
"The course of true love never does run smooth,"
Old histories show it, and a thousand hearts,
Breaking from day to day, attest the solemn truth.
