Love also fulfills immortality.  Of late science has reduced the number of things that endure.  The astronomer tells us the sun is burning up, and will be a dying ash-heap as truly as the coal in man’s cellar will be exhausted.  The geologists tell us the flowing of “the crystal springs wearies the mountain’s heart as truly as the beating of the crimson pulse wearies man’s; that the force of the iron crag is abated in its time, like the strength of human sinews in old age.”  The everlasting mountains are doomed to decay as surely as the moth and worm.  It seems that the shining texture of stars and suns must wax old, like a garment, and decay.  If now youth is eager to master all knowledge, plunge into the thick of life’s battle, forge some tool, enact some law, right some wrong, the time will speedily come when the man will sit down amid the ruins of his life and confess that his idols have been shivered, one by one.

He who loves endures.  For him always all is well.  That youth with a great love for nature’s treasures that promised fame, but who found his open book crimson with the life-current, may dry his tears, for love is immortal and beyond he will fulfill the dreams denied here.  Because he loves the slave, Livingstone, falling in the African forest, need not fear, for love will make his work immortal.  The sweet mother, whose love overarches the cradle with thoughts that for number are beyond the stars, need not fear to leave behind the gentle babe, for everlasting love will encircle it.  Falling into unconsciousness and putting out upon the yeasty sea midst the falling darkness, man may call back:  “I still live.”  For God is love and God is eternal.  Therefore man who loves is immortal also.

HOPE’S HARVEST, AND THE FAR-OFF INTEREST OF TEARS.

  “Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d,
  Let Darkness keep her raven gloss;
  Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,
  To dance with Death to beat the ground!”—­Tennyson.

  “Soul, rule thyself.  On passion, deed, desire,
  Lay thou the laws of thy deliberate will. 
  Stand at thy chosen post.  Faith’s sentinel: 
  Though Hell’s lost legions ring thee round with fire,
  Learn to endure.  Dark vigil hours shall tire
  Thy wakeful eyes; regrets thy bosom thrill;
  Slow years thy loveless flower of youth shall kill;
  Yea, thou shalt yearn for lute and wanton lyre. 
  Yet is thy guerdon great; thine the reward
  Of those elect, who, scorning Circe’s lure,
  Grown early wise, make living light their lord. 
  Clothed with celestial steel, these walk secure,
  Masters, not slaves.  Over their heads the pure
  Heavens bow, and guardian seraphs wave God’s sword.”—­V.  A. Symonds.

CHAPTER XIV.

HOPE’S HARVEST, AND THE FAR-OFF INTEREST OF TEARS.