Classic Poem

XI.

 Then at his sceptre's wave, a rush of plumes
 Shook the thick dew-drops from the roses' dyes;
 And, as embodying of their waked perfumes,
 A crowd of lovely forms, with lightning eyes,
 And flower-crown'd hair, and cheeks of Paradise,
 Circled the bower of beauty on the wing;
 And all the grove was rich with symphonies
 Of seeming flute, and horn, and golden string,
That slowly rose, and o'er the Mount hung hovering.

XII.

 The Angel's flashing eyes were on the vault,
 That now with lamps of diamond all was hung;
 His mighty wings like tissues heavenly-wrought,
 Upon the bosom of the air were sung,
 The solemn hymn's last harmonies were sung,
 The sun was couching on the distant zone.
 “Farewell” was breathing on the Angel's tongue;—
 He glanced below. There stood a suppliant one!
The impatient Angel sank, in wrath, upon his throne.

XIII.

 Yet all was quickly sooth'd,—“this labour past,
 “His coronet of tenfold light was won.”
 His glance again upon the form was cast,
 That now seem'd dying on the dazzling stone;
 He bade it rise and speak. The solemn tone
 Of Earth's high Sovereign mingled joy with fear,
 As summer vales of rose by lightning shown;
 As the night-fountain in the desert drear;
His voice seem'd sudden life to that fall'n suppliant's ear.

XIV.

 The form arose—the face was in a veil,
 The voice was low, and often check'd with sighs;
 The tale it utter'd was a simple tale;
 “A vow to close a dying parent's eyes,
 Had brought its weary steps from Tripolis;
 The Arab in the Syrian mountains lay,
 The caravan was made the robber's prize,
 The pilgrim's little wealth was swept away,
Man's help was vain.” Here sank the voice in soft decay.

XV.

 “And this is Earth!” the Angel frowning said;
 And from the ground he took a matchless gem,
 And flung it to the mourner, then outspread
 His pinions, like the lightning's rushing beam.
 The pilgrim started at the diamond's gleam,
 Glanced up in prayer, then, bending near the throne,
 Shed the quick tears that from the bosom stream,
 And tried to speak, but tears were there alone;
The pitying Angel said, “Be happy and begone.”

XVI.

 The weeper raised the veil; a ruby lip
 First dawn'd: then glow'd the young cheek's deeper hue,
 Yet delicate as roses when they dip
 Their odorous blossoms in the morning dew.
 Then beam'd the eyes, twin stars of living blue;
 Half shaded by the curls of glossy hair,
 That turn'd to golden as the light wind threw
 Their clusters in the western golden glare.
Yet was her blue eye dim, for tears were standing there.

XVII.

 He look'd upon her, and her hurried gaze
 Sought from his glance sweet refuge on the ground;
 But o'er her cheek of beauty rush'd a blaze;
 And, as the soul had felt some sudden wound,
 Her bosom heaved above its silken bound.
 He looked again; the cheek was deadly pale;
 The bosom sank with one long sigh profound;
 Yet still one lily hand upheld her veil,
And still one press'd her heart—that sigh told all its tale.

XVIII.

 She stoop'd, and from the thicket pluck'd a flower,
 And fondly kiss'd, and then with feeble hand
 She laid it on the footstool of the bower;
 Such was the ancient custom of the land.
 Her sighs were richer than the rose they fann'd;
 The breezes swept it to the Angel's feet;
 Yet even that sweet slight boon, 'twas Heaven's command,
 He must not touch, from her though doubly sweet,
No earthly gift must stain that hallow'd judgment-seat.

XIX.

 Still lay the flower upon the splendid spot,
 The Pilgrim turn'd away, as smote with shame;
 Her eye a glance of self-upbraiding shot;
 'Twas in his soul, a shaft of living flame.
 Then bow'd the humbled one, and bless'd his name,
 Cross'd her white arms, and slowly bade farewell.
 A sudden faintness o'er the Angel came;
 The voice rose sweet and solemn as a spell,
She bow'd her face to earth, and o'er it dropp'd her veil.

XX.

 Beauty, what art thou, that thy slightest gaze
 Can make the spirit from its centre roll;
 Its whole long course, a sad and shadowy maze?
 Thou midnight or thou noontide of the soul;
 One glorious vision lighting up the whole
 Of the wide world; or one deep, wild desire,
 By day and night consuming, sad and sole;
 Till Hope, Pride, Genius, nay, till Love's own fire,
Desert the weary heart, a cold and mouldering pyre.