Henry Alford

Written In A Copy Of "The Revolt Of Islam."

Beloved, to whose wedded hand I trust This treasure of sweet song, it is but meet That thou shouldst know its value; that the gift May have its honour, and the giver share His meed of grateful love. No common price Attends this wedding--gift; for blessed eyes Have looked upon its pages; eyes whose light Gladdened a circle of united hearts, While yet they shone; and now that they are quenched In the cold grave, they dwell upon our souls, A memory that can never die, a power That may not pass away. 'Twas not thy lot To know and love him: let it be enough That oft his lips pronounced thy name with love, As one he fain would know, in happy days Of youthful confidence and sacred joy. He lived in love; and God, whose son he was, Not willing that the spirit pure should pass Into the dim and damping atmosphere Of these our earthly haunts and scenes of care, While yet the hills and skies and common sights O'erflowed his soul with joy, and wondrous thoughts Sprung burning in his heart, fetched him away To the unwithering banks and deep--green glades Where flows the River of Eternal Truth. Be then by thee this gift as precious held As is his memory by the giver; look On every page with inly fervent heart; Learn lessons of pure beauty, and to shun Only the errors of the poet's creed, Yielding free duty to his code of love.