Love

Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832)

From the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” Canto III.

AND said I that my limbs were old,

And said I that my blood was cold,

And that my kindly fire was fled,

And my poor withered heart was dead,

And that I might not sing of love?—

How could I, to the dearest theme

That ever warmed a minstrel’s dream,

So foul, so false a recreant prove!

How could I name love’s very name,

Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;

In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed;

In halls, in gay attire is seen;

In hamlets, dances on the green.

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,

And men below, and saints above;

For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

True love’s the gift which God has given

To man alone beneath the heaven;

It is not fantasy’s hot fire,

Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;

It liveth not in fierce desire,

With dead desire it doth not die;

It is the secret sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,

Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,

In body and in soul can bind.