From the heart proceeds love, that son of abundance and of poverty, to speak with Plato, that needy one ever on the search for his lost heritage.  Love has wings, said again the wisdom of the Greeks, wings which essay to carry him ever higher.  Let us extricate the thought which is involved in these graceful figures:  Our desires have no limits, and indefinite desires can be satisfied only by meeting with an infinite Being who can be an inexhaustible source of happiness, an eternal object of love.  “Our heart is made for love,” said Saint Augustine, the great Christian disciple of Plato:  “therefore it is unquiet till it finds repose in God.”  From this unrest proceed all our miseries.  Men do not always succeed in contenting themselves with a petty prosaic happiness, a dull and paltry well-being, and in stifling the while the grand instincts of our nature.  If then the heart lives, and fails of its due object; if it does not meet with the supreme term of its repose, its indefinite aspirations attach themselves to objects which cannot satisfy them, and thence arise stupendous aberrations.  With some, it is the pursuit of sensual gratifications; they rush with a kind of fury into the passions of their lower nature.  With others it is the ardent pursuit of riches, power, fame,—­feelings which are always crying more:  More! and never:  Enough.  And the after-taste from the fruitless search after happiness in the paths of ambition and vanity is not less bitter perhaps than the after-taste from sensual enjoyments.  Listen to the confession of a man whose works, full as they are of beauties, are disfigured by so many impure allusions, that the author appears to have indulged, more than most others, in the giddy follies and culpable pleasures of life: 

     If, tired of mocking dreams, my restless heart
       Returns to take its fill of waking joy,
     Full soon I loathe the pleasures which impart
       No true delight, but kill me, while they cloy.[25]

Here are the accents of a true confession.  These are moreover truths of daily experience.  I have seen—­and which of you could not render similar testimony?—­I have seen the sick man, deprived of all the ordinary avocations and amusements of life, and with pain for his constant companion, I have seen him find joy in the thought of his God, and feeding, without satiety, on this bread of contentment.  I have seen the face of the blind lighted up by a living faith, and radiant with a light of peace, for him sweeter and brighter than the rays of the sun.  But where God is wanting, and all connection is broken with the source of joy, there you shall see the richest of the rich, the most prosperous among the ambitious, the man of fame whose renown is most widely extended,—­you shall see these men carrying the heavy burden of discontent.  Their brow, unillumined by the celestial ray, is furrowed by the lines of sadness.  If you meet them in a moment of candor, these rich, ambitious, and famous