10
And with sweetest harmony,
Let birds, and flowers, and leaves, and all things move
To love, only to love. 
Let nothing meet her eyes
But signs of Love’s soft victories; 15
Let nothing meet her ear
But sounds of Love’s sweet sorrow,
So that from faith no succour she may borrow,
But, guided by my spirit blind
And in a magic snare entwined, 20
She may now seek Cyprian. 
Begin, while I in silence bind
My voice, when thy sweet song thou hast began.

NOTE: 
18 she may]may she 1824.

A VOICE [WITHIN]: 
What is the glory far above
All else in human life?

ALL: 
Love! love! 25

[WHILE THESE WORDS ARE SUNG,
THE DAEMON GOES OUT AT ONE DOOR,
AND JUSTINA ENTERS AT ANOTHER.]

THE FIRST VOICE: 
There is no form in which the fire
Of love its traces has impressed not. 
Man lives far more in love’s desire
Than by life’s breath, soon possessed not. 
If all that lives must love or die, 30
All shapes on earth, or sea, or sky,
With one consent to Heaven cry
That the glory far above
All else in life is—­

ALL: 
Love! oh, Love!

JUSTINA: 
Thou melancholy Thought which art 35
So flattering and so sweet, to thee
When did I give the liberty
Thus to afflict my heart? 
What is the cause of this new Power
Which doth my fevered being move, 40
Momently raging more and more? 
What subtle Pain is kindled now
Which from my heart doth overflow
Into my senses?—­

NOTE: 
36 flattering Boscombe manuscript; fluttering 1824.

ALL: 
Love! oh, Love!

JUSTINA: 
’Tis that enamoured Nightingale 45
Who gives me the reply;
He ever tells the same soft tale
Of passion and of constancy
To his mate, who rapt and fond,
Listening sits, a bough beyond. 50

Be silent, Nightingale—­no more
Make me think, in hearing thee
Thus tenderly thy love deplore,
If a bird can feel his so,
What a man would feel for me. 55
And, voluptuous Vine, O thou
Who seekest most when least pursuing,—­
To the trunk thou interlacest
Art the verdure which embracest,
And the weight which is its ruin,—­ 60
No more, with green embraces, Vine,
Make me think on what thou lovest,—­
For whilst thus thy boughs entwine
I fear lest thou shouldst teach me, sophist,
How arms might be entangled too. 65