It reached the spot on which they stood There suddenly shone out a light From a clear lamp, which, as it blazed Across the brow of one who raised The flame aloft (as if to throw Its light upon that group below), Displayed two eyes, sparkling between The dusky leaves, such as are seen By fancy only, in those faces, That haunt a poet's walk at even, Looking from out their leafy places Upon his dreams of love and heaven. "Twas but a moment-the blush, brought O'er all her features at the thought Of being seen thus late, alone, Had scarcely for an instant shone Yet, ere she went, the words, 'I come, I come, my Nama,' reached her ear, In that kind voice, familiar, dear, Which tells of confidence, of home,— Of habit, that hath drawn hearts near, Till they grow one-of faith sincere, And all that Love most loves to hear! A music, breathing of the past, The present, and the time to be, Where Hope and Memory, to the last, Lengthen out life's true harmony! Nor long did he, whom call so kind His gentler love's short history! Thus did it run-not as he told The tale himself, but as 'tis graved Upon the tablets that, of old, By Cham were from the deluge saved, All written over with sublime And saddening legends of the unblest But glorious spirits of that time, And this young Angel's 'mong the rest. THIRD ANGEL'S STORY. AMONG the Spirits, of pure flame, Circles of light, that from the same Though knowing all-so much doth Transcend all knowledge, even in heaven! 'Mong these was Zaraph once-and none Not, as with others, a mere part The very life-breath of his heart! Often, when from the Almighty brow A lustre came too bright to bear, And all the seraph ranks would bow Their heads beneath their wings, nor dare To look upon the effulgence thereThis Spirit's eyes would court the blaze (Such pride he in adoring took), And rather lose, in that one gaze, The power of looking than not look! Then, too, when angel voices sung The mercy of their God, and strung Their harps to hail, with welcome sweet, The moment, watched for by all eyes, When some repentant sinner's feet First touched the threshold of the Oh then how clearly did the voice Such love as only could belong To the blest angels, and alone Could, even from angels, bring such song! Alas, that it should e'er have been The same in heaven as it is here, Where nothing fond or bright is seen, But it hath pain and peril nearWhere right and wrong so close resemble, That what we take for virtue's thrill Is often the first downward tremble Of the heart's balance into ill Where Love hath not a shrine so pure, So was it with that Angel-such Too easy lapse, to loving wrong.- Till love for the Creator soon In passion for the creature ended! 'Twas first at twilight, on the shore Of the smooth sea, he heard the lute And voice of her he loved steal o'er The silver waters, that lay mute, As loth, by even a breath, to stay The pilgrimage of that sweet lay; Whose echoes still went on and on, Till lost among the light that shone Far off beyond the ocean's brim— There, where the rich cascade of day Had, o'er the horizon's golden rim, Into Elysium rolled away! Of God she sung, and of the mild Attendant Mercy, that beside His awful throne for ever smiled, Ready with her white hand, to guide His bolts of vengeance to their preyThat she might quench them on the way! Of Peace--of that Atoning Love, Upon whose star, shining above This twilight world of hope and fear. The weeping eyes of Faith are fixed So fond, that with her every tear The light of that love-star is mixed!— | All this she sung, and such a soul Those lulling waters, where he lay wave, An echo that some spirit gave Lay down the far-brought gift, and And, while her lute hung by her, hushed, Of song, that from her lips still gushed, As if unequal to the tide She raised, like one beatified, Those eyes, whose light seemed rather given To be adored than to adoreSuch eyes as may have looked from heaven, But ne'er were raised to it before! Oh Love, Religion, Music-all That's left of Eden upon earth- A trace of their high glorious birthHow kindred are the dreams you bring! How Love, though unto earth so prone, Delights to take Religion's wing, own! How near to Love's beguiling brink, Too oft, entranced Religion lies! While Music, Music is the link They both still hold by to the skes, The language of their native sphere, Which they had else forgotten here. How then could Zaraph fail to feel That moment's witcheries?-one so fair Breathing out music that might steal Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer That seraphs might be proud to share! Oh, he did feel it-far too well With warmth that much too dearly Nor knew he, when at last he fell, Sweet was the hour, though dearly won, Before Religion's altar see Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie Self-pledged, in love to live and dieThen first did woman's virgin brow That hymeneal chaplet wear, Which, when it dies, no second vow Can bid a new one bloom out thereBlest union! by that angel wove, And worthy from such hands to come; Safe, sole asylum, in which Love, When fallen or exiled from above, In this dark world can find a home. And, though the Spirit had transgressed, Had, from his station 'mong the blessed, Won down by woman's smile, allowed Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er The mirror of his heart, and cloud God's image, there so bright beforeYet never did that God look down On error with a brow so mild; Never did justice launch a frown That, ere it fell, so nearly smiled. For gentle was their love, with awe And trembling like a treasure kept, That was not theirs by holy law, Whose beauty with remorse they saw, And o'er whose preciousness they wept. Humility, that low, sweet root, In Nama's heart, by whom alone Those charms, for which a heaven was lost, Seemed all unvalued and unknown; And when her Seraph's eyes she caught, And hid hers glowing on his breast, Even bliss was humbled by the thought, 'What claim have I to be so blessed?' Still less could maid so meek have nursed Desire of knowledge-that vain thirst With which the sex hath all been cursed, From luckless Eve to her who near The Tabernacle stole, to hear The secrets of the Angels-no To love as her own seraph loved, With Faith, the same through bliss and woe Faith that, were even its light removed, Could, like the dial, fixed remain, By the rude storm, can rise anew, And Hope that, even from Evil's cloud, Sees sunny Good half breaking through This deep, relying Love, worth more Was the sole joy, ambition, pride, Of all its views, above, below To trust, is happier than to know. And thus in humbleness they trod, So meekly beautiful as they, Hand within hand, and side by side, Their only punishment (as wrong, However sweet, must bear its brand), Their only doom was this-that, long As the green earth and ocean stand, They both shall wander here-the same Throughout all time, in heart and frame Still looking to that goal sublime, Whose light, remote but sure, they see Pilgrims of Love, whose way is Time, Whose home is in Eternity! Where nothing meets his lips, alas, All this they bear, but, not the less, As is that light from chill or stain, To be by them shed back again !— That happy minglement of hearts, Where, changed as chymic compounds are, Each with its own existence parts, To find a new one, happier far! Such are their joys-and, crowning all, That blessed hope of the bright hour, When, happy and no more to fall, Their spirits shall, with freshened power, Rise up rewarded for their trust In Him, from whom all goodness springs, And, shaking off earth's soiling dust From their emancipated wings, Wander for ever through those skies Of radiance, where Love never dies! In what lone region of the earth These pilgrims now may roam or dwell, God and the Angels, who look forth To watch their steps, alone can tell, But should we, in our wanderings, Meet a young pair, whose beauty wants But the adornment of bright wings To look like heaven's inhabitantsWho shine where'er they tread, and yet Are humble in their earthly lot, As is the wayside violet, That shines unseen, and were it not For its sweet breath would be forgotWhose hearts in every thought are one, Whose voices utter the same wills, Answering as Echo doth, some tone Of fairy music 'mong the hills, So like itself, we seek in vain Which is the echo, which the strainWhose piety is love-whose love, Though close as 'twere their souls' embrace, Is not of earth, but from above Like two fair mirrors, face to face, Whose light, from one to the other thrown, Is heaven's reflection, not their ownShould we e'er meet with aught so pure, So perfect here, we may be sure There is but me such pair below; And, as we bless them on their way Through the world's wilderness, may say, 'There Zaraph and his Nama go.' DEAR LORD BYRON,-Though this Volume should possess no other merit in your eyes than that of reminding you of the short time we passed together at Venice, when some of the trifles which it contains were written, you will, I am sure, receive the dedication of it with pleasure, and believe that I am, my dear Lord, ever faithfully yours, T. B. PREFACE. THOUGH it was the wish of the Members of the Poco-curante Society (who have lately done me the honour of electing me their Secretary) that I should prefix my name to the following Miscellany, it is but fair to them and to myself to state that, except in the painful pre-eminence' of being employed to transcribe their lucubrations, my claim to such a distinction in the title-page is not greater than that of any other gentleman who has contributed his share to the contents of the volume. I had originally intended to take this opportunity of giving some account of the origin and objects of our Institution, the names and characters of the different members, etc. etc.; but as I am at present preparing for the press the First Volume of the Transactions of the Poco-curante Society,' I shall reserve for that occasion all further details upon the subject; and content myself here with referring, for a general insight into our tenets, to a Song which will be found at the end of this work, and which is sung to us on the first day of every month, by one of our oldest members, to the tune of (as far as I can recollect, being no musician) either 'Nancy Dawson' or 'He stole away the Bacon.' It may be as well also to state, for the information of those critics who attack with the hope of being answered, and of being thereby brought into notice, that it is the rule of this Society to return no other answer to such assailants than is contained in three words, 'Non curat Hippoclides' (meaning, in English, Hippoclides does not care a fig'), which were spoken two thousand years ago by the firstfounder of Poco-curantism, and have ever since been adopted as the leading dictum of the sect. ་ THOMAS BROWN. |