But soon these boding fancies fled;

Nor saw I aught that could forbid
My full revealment, save the dread
Of that first dazzle, that unhid
And bursting glory on a lid
Untried in heaven-and even this glare
She might, by love's own nursing care,
Be, like young eagles, taught to bear.
For well I knew the lustre shed
From my rich wings when proudliest
spread,

Was, in its nature, lambent, pure,
And innocent as is the light
The glow-worm hangs out to allure
Her mate to her green bower at night.
Oft had I, in the mid-air, swept
Through clouds in which the lightning
slept,

As in his lair, ready to spring,
Yet waked him not--though from my
wing

A thousand sparks fell glittering!
Oft too when round me from above
The feathered snow (which, for its
whiteness,

In my pure days I used to love)
Fell like the moultings of Heaven's
Dove,-

So harmless, though so full of bright-
ness,

Was my brow's wreath, that it would shake

From off its flowers each downy flake As delicate, unmelted, fair,

And cool as they had fallen there!

Can, by the outward form unfelt,

Reach and dissolve the soul beneath! Thus having (as, alas, deceived By my sin's blindness, I believed) No cause for dread, and those black eyes There fixed upon me, eagerly As if the unlocking of the skies Then waited but a sign from me→ How was I to refuse? how say

One word that in her heart could stir A fear, a doubt, but that each ray

I brought from heaven belonged to
her?

Slow from her side I rose, while she
Stood up, too, mutely, tremblingly,
But not with fear-all hope, desire,

She waited for the awful boon,
Like priestesses, with eyes of fire

Watching the rise of the full moon, Whose beams-they know, yet cannot shun

Will madden them when looked upon!

Of all my glories, the bright crown, Which, when I last from heaven came down,

I left-see, where those clouds afar Sail through the west-there hangs it yet,

Shining remote, more like a star
Than a fallen angel's coronet-
Of all my glories, this alone

Was wanting; but the illumined
brow,

The curls, like tendrils that had grown Out of the sun-the eyes, that now

love's light added to their own, And shed a blaze, before unknown Even to themselves-the unfolded wings,

From which, as from two radiant springs,
Sparkles fell fast around, like spray—
All I could bring of heaven's array,

Of that rich panoply of charms
A cherub moves in, on the day
Of his best pomp, I now put on;
And, proud that in her eyes I shone

Thus glorious, glided to her arms,
Which still (though at a sight so splendid
Her dazzled brow had instantly
Sunk on her breast) were wide extended
To clasp the form she durst not see!

To many a thought that else had lain Unfledged and mute among the chords.

All started at the sound—but chief

The third young Angel, in whose face, Though faded like the others, grief

Had left a gentler, holier trace; As if, even yet, through pain and ill, Hope had not quit him-as if still Her precious pearl in sorrow's cup,

Unmelted at the bottom lay, To shine again, when, all drunk up, The bitterness should pass away. Chiefly did he, though in his eyes There shone more pleasure than sur prise,

Turn to the wood, from whence that sound

Of solitary sweetness broke, Then listening, looked delighted round To his bright peers, while thus it spoke :

Come, pray with me, my seraph love,

My angel-lord, come pray with me; In vain to-night my lip hath strove To send one holy prayer aboveThe knee may bend, the lip may move,

But pray I cannot without thee!
I've fed the altar in my bower

I've sheltered it from wind and shower,
With droppings from the incensetree;
But dim it burns the livelong hour,
As if, like me, it had no power

Of life or lustre, without thee!

A boat at midnight sent alone
To drift upon the moonless sea,
A lute, whose leading chord is gone,
A wounded bird, that hath but one
Imperfect wing to soar upon,

Are like what I am without thee! 'Then ne'er, my spirit-love, divide,

In life or death, thyself from me; But when again, in sunny pride, Thou walk'st through Eden, let meglide, A prostrate shadow, by thy side

Oh, happier thus than without thee!' The song had ceased, when from the wood

Where curving down that airy height,

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

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!—

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