Once more, then, we meet In the circles of yore; Let our song be as sweet In its wreaths as before, Who claims the first place In the tribute of song? The God to whose grace All our pleasures belong. Though Ceres may spread All her gifts on the shrine, Though the glass may be red With the blush of the vine, What boots--if the while Fall no spark on the hearth; If the heart do not smile With the instinct of mirth?-- From the clouds, from God's breast Must our happiness fall, 'Mid the blessed, most blest Is the moment of all! Since creation began All that mortals have wrought, All that's godlike in man Comes--the flash of a thought! For ages the stone In the quarry may lurk, An instant alone Can suffice to the work; An impulse give birth To the child of the soul, A glance stamp the worth And the fame of the whole. On the arch that she buildeth From sunbeams on high, As Iris just gildeth, And fleets from the sky, So shineth, so gloometh Each gift that is ours; The lightning illumeth-- The darkness devours!