his mind
reverts to Him who in them prescribed the purpose of his life, and
bestowed its grace. But, religious as is the mood of every good
affection, none is so devotional as that of love, especially so called.
The soul is then the very temple of adoration, of faith, of holy purity,
of heroism, of charity. At such a moment the human creature shoots up
into the angel: there is nothing on earth too defiled for its charity--
nothing in hell too appalling for its heroism--nothing in heaven too
glorious for its sympathy. Strengthened, sustained, vivified by that
most mysterious power, union with another spirit, it feels itself set
well forth on the way of victory over evil, sent out conquering and to
conquer. There is no other such crisis in human life. The philosopher
may experience uncontrollable agitation in verifying his principle of
balancing systems of worlds, feeling, perhaps, as if he actually saw the
creative hand in the act of sending the planets forth on their
everlasting way; but this philosopher, solitary seraph, as he may be
regarded, amidst a myriad of men, knows at such a moment no emotions so
divine as those of the spirit becoming conscious that it is beloved--be
it the peasant girl in the meadow, or the daughter of the sage, reposing
in her father's confidence, or the artisan beside his loom, or the man
of letters musing by his fireside. The warrior, about to strike the
decisive blow for the liberties of a nation, however impressed with the
solemnity of the hour, is not in a state of such lofty resolution as
those who, by joining hearts, are laying their joint hands on the whole
wide realm of futurity for their own. The statesman who, in the moment
of success, feels that an entire class of social sins and woes is
annihilated by his hand, is not conscious of so holy and so intimate a
thankfulness as they who are aware that their redemption is come in the
presence of a new and sovereign affection. And these are many--they are
in all corners of every land. The statesman is the leader of a nation--
the warrior is the grace of an age--the philosopher is the birth of a
thousand years; but the lover--where is he not? Wherever parents look
round upon their children, there he has been--wherever children are at
play together, there he will soon be--wherever there are roofs under
which men dwell--wherever there is an atmosphere vibrating with human
voices, there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship g