He owns it in all noble thoughts- in all unworldly motives- in all
holy impulses- in all chivalrous, generous, and self-sacrificing
deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman- in the grace of her step-
in the lustre of her eye- in the melody of her voice- in her soft
laughter, in her sigh- in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He
deeply feels it in her winning endearments- in her burning
enthusiasms- in her gentle charities- in her meek and devotional
endurances- but above all- ah, far above all he kneels to it- he
worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
altogether divine majesty- of her love.
Let me conclude by- the recitation of yet another brief poem- one
very different in character from any that I have before quoted. It
is by Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our
modern and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of
warfare, we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to
sympathize with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real
excellence of the poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in
fancy with the soul of the old cavalier:-
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine:
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honour call
Us to the field againe.
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