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Title: Love
Author: Hannah S. Battersby [
More Titles by Battersby]
Immortal love! what power is thine,
To quicken and inspire!
Fabled Prometheus well might dare
To steal from heaven such fire.
For 'tis a beacon light to guide
To rapturous joy and peace,
In this our present earthly home,
And where all sorrows cease.
Thy subtle fire electrical,
In word, look, touch or kiss,
Thrills through our being to invoke
Responsive mutual bliss.
Once moved by this Herculean power,
What cannot mortals dare?
Dangers else insurmountable,
They with impressment share.
Nothing on earth e'er nerved the arm
Of knight or warrior bold,
Like love of country, home, and heaven,
In the brave days of old.
No matter what man's form of words,
Uttered or written down,
If thy incisive, quickening spell,
Does not their labour crown.
And still thou reign'st supremely fair,
In homes and battle fields,
And his the arm victorious,
Who thy grand armour wields.
For they who with untiring zeal,
Thy heart-fires ceaseless feed,
Know their supernal warmth alone,
Can meet man's highest need.
But hearts e'en at the altar pledged
Oft seek for love in vain,
And hungering souls are doomed to starve,
In freezing, cold disdain.
Ah, why should mortals thus refuse
To wield that grace divine,
The chief of the blest three that heaven
Gives to make life sublime.
Some make a grave mistake, and seek
Pity beyond their home;
No friend or relative on earth
Should counsel thus to roam.
Others have cultivated minds,
Are leaders in high art,
Whilst in the little things of life,
They take no kindly part.
And yet if we investigate,
It is these little things,
Which make up human happiness,
And lasting pleasure brings.
And tastes objectionable oft,
May on life's harp-strings jar,
Producing irritation
And much domestic war.
The little word in the right place,
The gentle touches, tones,
The watchful loving sympathy,
Which for so much atones,
Are potent means which moral force
Finds it the best to wield,
For 'neath their mystic influence,
Most hearts are bound to yield.
Oh! for this love that conquers self,
That binds us to our kind,
That raises us to heaven and God,
And purifies the mind!
Ecstatic, sweet, rekindling power,
Bright altar-fire sublime,
Most precious gift to mortals given,
That will outlive all time.
The Rubicon is past when wed,
And there is no retreat,
Brave hearts should then accept the lot,
Which none but they can meet.
'Tis always wise and safe to choose
The heaven directed course
Of ruling by all-conquering love,
Than by the rod of force.
Let home be made a sacred shrine,
The best, most cherished spot,
All others then will surely be
Deserted and forgot.
Each should uphold the other self,
Before the world's keen sight;
In thus upholding, each will keep
His honour doubly bright.
Like Graecian vestals who of yore
Believed no duty higher
Than tending night and day the flame
Of the celestial fire,
So let the broad world's denizens
Foster this heart-fire bright,
Which can their pilgrimage on earth
Illume with glorious light.
Domestic bliss, how beautiful!
No idol is so fair.
Set in the royalty of love,
What can with it compare?
Models of virtue are the homes
Where this blest power holds sway,
Where parents' words suffice to move
Their offspring to obey.
I know of such a happy home,
Where love-signs rarely cease,
And 'tis in very truth a throne
Of harmony and peace.
Nature's grand law of order there,
Reigns with exactness sure
The wheels of time glide smoothly through
An atmosphere so pure.
A group of healthy children six
Their happy parents meet,
For breakfast where food, simple, pure,
Their hungry senses greet.
Those budding blossoms of the home
With joy-lit life appear,
A daily morning glory they,
So neat, clean, trim and dear.
No wonder if the father's soul,
Worships his darling bride,
No wonder if his manly heart,
Swells with delighted pride:
For does she not make home a shrine,
Where love and duty vie
To honour, through her peerless love,
Their holy marriage tie?
He daily leaves his happy home,
Next heaven the holiest place,
Strengthened by her sweet words and kiss,
For action in life's race.
And she through all her daily rounds,
Thinks foremost of the one,
Who no less now than years ago,
Her steadfast love has won.
God bless them in their happy home!
God bless their children nine!
And may they through a peaceful life,
Ever in love combine,
To aid and cheer each other here,
And when this life is past,
Be reunited in that life
Which will for ever last.
Such homes of cheerful industry,
Of order, thrift and care,
Sweetly reflect on those whose minds,
Their thrice blest precincts share.
And since 'tis in the reach of most
To make a home like this.
What pity that e'en one refuse
To win such priceless bliss.
People there are who ceaseless moan,
Their hard and cruel fate,
Yet never see their course is wrong,
Until alas! too late;
To such the axiom I'd repeat,
That 'tis God's righteous will,
To help all those who help themselves,
Life's duties to fulfil.
'Tis written upon every life
With which we mingle here,
And throughout nature's wide domain
It also doth appear,
That all unchanging are God's laws,
Their consequences sure;
That as we choose to sow we reap,
Fruit holy or impure.
Trace the effects of idleness,
Extravagance and play,
Of self-indulgence, vice and pride,
And then reflecting say,
It was not stern Nemesis' part,
To punish each, as cause
Of retribution to himself
For breaking nature's laws.
Let all, then, bravely conquer self,
And use the means which heaven
Has placed within the reach of each,
Life's sorriest state to leaven.
Industry, perseverance, thrift,
Love, honesty and skill,
Will aid the weakest in their work,
Life's duties to fulfil.
All-conquering, grand, unselfish love!
Nought can withstand the power
Of thy divine, o'ermastering force,
To man heaven's richest dower.
All know who own thy sovereign sway,
No wealth can equal thine,
Inspiring and constraining each,
To sacrifice sublime!
[The end]
Hannah S. Battersby's poem: Love
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