"Loving," says Shakspeare, "goes by
haps; some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps." "The accepted and
betrothed lover has lost the wildest charms of his maiden, in her
acceptance of him," says Emerson, again; "she was heaven whilst he
pursued her as a star--she cannot be heaven if she stoops to such a one
as he." I do not think Emerson has got exactly the right idea of the way
a lover feels just there. Here it is and nearer the truth--I do not know
the author's name:
I've thought, if those dumb, heathen gods could breathe,
As shapeless, strengthless, wooden things they stand,
And feel the holy incense round them wreathe,
And see before them offerings of the land;
And know that unto them is worship paid
From pure hearts, kneeling on the verdant sod,
Looking to helplessness, for light and aid
Because by fate they know no higher god:
How their dull hearts must ache with constant pain,
And sense of shame, and fear to be flung down
When all their weakness must one day be plain,
And fire avenge the undeserved crown.
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