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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,
By any but the eyes she sought,

Had scarcely for an instant shone
Through the dark leaves when she

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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
Summoned away, remain behind;
Nor did there need much time to tell
What they-alas, more fallen than he
From happiness and heaven-knew well,

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,
That round the Almighty Throne
abide--

Circles of light, that from the same
Eternal centre sweeping wide,
Carry its beams on every side
(Like spheres of air that waft around
The undulations of rich sound),
Till the far-circling radiance be
Diffused into infinity!
First and immediate near the Throne
As if peculiarly God's own,
The Scraphs stand-
-this burning sign
Traced, on their banner, 'Love Divine!'
Their rank, their honours, far above
Even those to high-browed Cherubs
given,

Though knowing all-so much doth
Love

Transcend all knowledge, even in heaven!

'Mong these was Zaraph once-and none
E'er felt affection's holy fire,
Or yearned towards the Eternal One,
With half such longing, deep desire.
Love was to his impassioned soul

Not, as with others, a mere part
Of its existence, but the whole

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
skies,

Oh then how clearly did the voice
Of Zaraph above all rejoice!
Love was in every buoyant tone,

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 holy, but the serpent, Sin,
In moments even the most secure,
Beneath his altar may glide in!

So was it with that Angel-such
The charm that sloped his fall along
From good to ill, from loving much,

Too easy lapse, to loving wrong.-
Even so that amorous Spirit, bound
By beauty's spell, where'er 'twas found,
From the bright things above the moon,
Down to earth's beaming eyes de-
scended,

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!—

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All this she sung, and such a soul
Of piety was in that song,
That the charmed Angel, as it stole
Tenderly to his ear, along

Those lulling waters, where he lay
Watching the day-light's dying ray,
Thought 'twas a voice from out the

wave,

An echo that some spirit gave
To Eden's distant harmony,
Heard faint and sweet beneath the sea!
Tracking that music's melting course,
Quickly, however, to its source,
He saw upon the golden sand
Of the sea-shore a maiden stand,
Before whose feet the expiring waves
Flung their last tribute with a sigh-
As, in the East, exhausted slaves

Lay down the far-brought gift, and
die-

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-
The only blessings, since the fall
Of our weak souls, that still recall

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,
When time or grief hath stained his

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
cost;

Nor knew he, when at last he fell,
To which attraction, to which spell,
Love, Music, or Devotion, most
His soul in that sweet hour was lost.

Sweet was the hour, though dearly won,
And pure, as aught of earth could be,
For then first did the glorious sun

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,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot,
Was in the hearts of both-but most

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,
And wait till it shone out again—
With Patience that, though often bowed

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
In heaven than all a cherub's lore-
This Faith, more sure than aught be-
side,

Was the sole joy, ambition, pride,
Of her fond heart-the unreasoning
Scope

Of all its views, above, below
So true she felt it that to hope,

To trust, is happier than to know.

And thus in humbleness they trod,
Abashed, but pure before their God;
Nor e'er did earth behold a sight

So meekly beautiful as they,
When, with the altar's holy light
Full on their brows, they knelt to
pray,

Hand within hand, and side by side,
Two links of love, awhile untied
From the great chain above, but fast
Holding together to the last-
Two fallen Splendors from that tree
Which buds with such eternally,
Shaken to earth, yet keeping all
Their light and freshness in the fall.

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!
Subject, the while, to all the strife
True love encounters in this life-
The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain;
The chill, that turns his warmest sighs
To earthly vapour, ere they rise;
The doubt he feeds on, and the pain
That in his very sweetness lies.
Still worse, the illusions that betray
His footsteps to their shining brink;
That tempt him, on his desert way
Through the bleak world, to bend and
drink,

Where nothing meets his lips, alas,
But he again must sighing pass
On to that far-off home of peace,
In which alone his thirst will cease.

All this they bear, but, not the less,
Have moments rich in happiness-
Blest meetings, after many a day
Of widowhood past far away,
When the loved face again is seen
Close, close, with not a tear between
Confidings frank, without control,
Poured mutually from soul to soul;
As free from any fear or doubt

As is that light from chill or stain,
The sun into the stars sheds out,

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.'

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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.

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