Classic Poem

It was a holy festival in Heaven,
A joy of satisfaction at the close
Of some divinest epoch of the world.

Far round the infinite extremes of space
Star unto star spake gladness, as they sped
On their resplendent courses; and a smile,
Enkindling on the countenances of the suns,
Thrilled to the heart of nature, while there rose,
Expressive of divine felicity,
A clear bright strain of music, like a braid
Of silver round a maiden's raiment, all
Imbounding and adorning.


There, in one
Of those most pure and happy stars which claim
Identity with Heaven, high raised in bliss,
Each lofty spirit luminous with delight,
Sat God's selectest angels, gathered round
The golden board of that palatial orb,
In spheral order. All the fruitage there
Of the immortal Eden, and the land
Of everlasting Light to please the sense
And satisfy the soul, the Tree of Life
In all its bright varieties could yield
Was lavished; and its fragrance filled the skies.
The bright blue wine as though exprest from Heaven
Glittering with life went, moonlike, round and round
Times sacredly repeated 'mong the gods
And spirits who had each one earned his star
In that divinest conclave, as they held
Deep commune on the wondrous end imposed
By the Eternal Saviour of the world
Upon his infinite work;—and all the harps—
Intwined about with nectar-dropping flowers
Which wither not though culled but on the brow
Or in the bosom bloom as in their fields—
Were trembling into silence, when there stepped,
Unseen before, into the joyous midst
Of that bright throng, surprised in holy ease,
A young and shining angel.


In his air
Sat kingly sweetness, kind and calm command,
Yet with long suffering blended; for the soil
Of dust was on his garb and sandalled sole;
Dust on the locks of fertile gold which flowed
From his fair forehead rippling round his neck;
Bedropt, defiled, with cold and cave-like dew.
One hand a staff of virent emerald held
As 'twere a sapling of the tree of life,
And one smoothed in his breast a radiant dove
Fluttering its wings in lightnings thousand-hued,
The sole companion of his pilgrimage.
Silent he stood and gazed.


The angels straight
Rose from their pearly seats inwreathed with gems
And priceless azure from the morning's mine,
And bowed the head and stretched the hand, ere yet
One welcoming word were uttered. Wine and bread—
Bread made of golden wheat—and wine of life—
Such only as immortal virtues use
Before the guest were set; and cool white robes
The angels gave him, floating halo-like
With fleecy glistening round his fainting limbs.
Twain of the thrones at once their seats resigned;
Ministrant Princedoms sang again the strain
Which fills the halls of hospitable Heaven
When that the holy enter, or the sons
Of Light hold high and hallowed festival.

Then spake the cherub chiefest of them all—
Bright Angel! from whatever sphere arrived,
Supernal and celestial, or some orb
Far off, of starry nature,—for the toil
Meseems, of travel, weighed upon ye erst,—
Now cheerily relieved,—instruct us, pray,
Who here assembled sit to celebrate,
By kind commission of our Lord, His love,
If we in aught thine ends can further aid
Or serve in thine intents, as fain we would.
For all, we know, is holy enters here,
By virtue of our King; and we, prepared
Again for sacred action, instant are.

Thus he his seat resuming, while a glance
Of bland approof beamed forth from every eye,
Wise reticence still reining-in each tongue.

Answered the stranger angel, rising slow,
Sunlike, from out his seat of clouded gold—
O kind! O noble, natures! well ye work
Your ministry of love, who thus pour forth
Unmeasured, unconditioned, your divine
Riches of works and words, that all who come,
Whether by invitation or by need,
May of the Sovereign's bounty, whom ye serve,
Like honour with His chosen friends, receive;
Accept these thanks, this blessing!—