EPILOGUE LEAVE wo the Templars now to go their way, And ask, what is our special aim in view, Tho while we read this book, or while we write it. For if aright wo read it, then wo write it. Heading an action is as much as writing, Hut we must couple action with volition ; For action without will is no true action, Is virtually, though often done, a non-act, Hut to volition must belong clear Light ! When we are willed to read, to write a poem, The world we would contemplate in tho little, That is, would look on mankind in the largo ; Wo want the soul's sublimest sphere of Life. The spirit alone, the heart alone, aro dead ; Each lives but in its cognate essence,—Love !— That sighs its life ont in their warm embrace. 'Tis not this cosmic mystery of begetting, The birth it is, Art watches o'er and paints. Tho' circumscribed, of lofty origin, It is the infant born of faith and joy, And more,—the grandchild of the Deity. Yet Love hath sent his children's child to man, Who, made in Love's own image, and of himself A token, yet requires a sign. Wherefore Art cannot give, if Art to men would speak, The Essence, whereof man himself but dreams, Bnt only, of Love's joys the external Sign. All Art symbolically points to Love, Hut yet the symbol, like mankind, is poor,