Sweet story, told so many times,
But never told so well before,
As in these tender, simple rhymes
Which here, so glad, I linger o'er.

How must the bards of old rejoice
To hear their favorite tale retold
Here in this " Earthly Paradise, "
And by such lips of purest gold!

I lay the cherished volume down,
And while the firelight's ruddy glow
Mingles with all that old renown,
I let the fancies come and go.

O Psyche mine, I muse, in this
So sweet a tale of ancient days,
A lesson lurks for thee, I wis,
Which, heeded well, shall bring thee praise.

Heed thou not those who ask of thee,
" Hast seen the God thou dost adore? "
" Nay? Then perchance no God is He,
Nor one whom thou shouldst bow before. "

Heed thou not these: by faith, not sight,
Thy God of Love is also known.
He also comes to thee by night,
And whispers, " Thou art mine alone. "

Thou knowest well His voice benign;
What joy and comfort He can bring;
By inward sense thou dost divine
His Godhead, by no outward thing.

" O God! my God! " the spirit cries;
" My joy, my peace beyond compare;
Not to be seen with curious eyes,
Still to confess Thy name I dare.

" Enough, this secret inmost sense,
Yea, better far than outward sign;
I know not how, or where, or whence,
And still I know that Thou art mine. "