To the harp of Beauty,

To that instrument which sings

In our souls of love that brings

Peace and faith and duty.

15

 She, seriously:

Duty?—Comfort of the sinner

And the saint!—when grief and trial

Weigh us, and within our inner

Selves,—responsive to love's viol,—

Hope's soft voice grows thin and thinner,

It is kin to self-denial.

Self-denial!—through whose feeling

We are gainer though we're loser;

All the finer force revealing

Of our natures. No accuser

Is the conscience then, but healing

Of the wound of which we're chooser.

Some one said no flower knoweth

Of the fragrance it revealeth;

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