Classic Poem

III. — ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL OF DEATH

Well might thine awful image thus arise
With that high calm upon thy regal brow,
And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes,
Unto the glorious Artist! — Who but thou
The fleeting forms of beauty can endow
For Him with permanency? — who make those gleams
Of brighter life, that color his lone dreams,
Immortal things? — Let others trembling bow,
Angel of Death! before thee. — Not to those,
Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose,
Art thou a fearful shape! — and oh! for me,
How full of welcome would thine aspect shine,
Did not the cords of strong affection twine
So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee!