'Mong these was ZARAPH once-and none
E'er felt affection's holy fire,
Or yearn'd towards th' Eternal One,
With half such longing, deep desire.
Love was to his impassion'd soul
Not, as with others, a mere part
Of its existence, but the whole-
The very life-breath of his heart!
Oft, when from ALLA's lifted brow
A lustre came, too bright to bear,
And all the seraph ranks would bow,
To shade their dazzled sight, nor dare
To look upon th' effulgence there-
This 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,
That moment, watch'd for by all eyes,
When some repentant sinner's feet
First touch'd the threshold of the skies,
Oh then how clearly did the voice
Of ZARAPH above all rejoice!
Love was in ev'ry buoyant tone-
Such love, as only could belong
To the blest angels, and alone
Could, ev'n from angels, bring such song!
Alas, that it should e'er have been
In heav'n as 'tis too often here, Where nothing fond or bright is seen, But it hath pain and peril near;Where 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 unto ill; Where Love hath not a shrine so pure, So holy, but the serpent, Sin, In moments, ev'n 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.-
Ev'n 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 descended, Till love for the Creator soon
In passion for the creature ended.
'I was 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 loath, 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 th' horizon's golden rim,
Into Elysium roll'd away!
Of God she sung, and of the mild
Attendant Mercy, that beside
His awful throne forever smiled,
Ready, with her white hand, to guide
His bolts of vengeance to their prey-
That 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 fix'd
So fond, that with her every tear
The light of that love-star is mix'd!-
All this she sung, and such a soul
Of piety was in that song,
That the charm'd Angel, as it stole
Tenderly to his ear, along
Those lulling waters where he lay,
Watching the daylight's dying ray,
Thought 'twas a voice from out the wave,
An echo, that some sea-nymph gave
To Eden's distant harmony,
Heard faint and sweet beneath the sea!
Quickly, however, to its source,
Tracing that music's melting course,
He saw, upon the golden sand
Of the sea-shore, a maiden stand,
Before whose feet th' expiring waves
Flung their last offering with a sigh-
As, in the East, exhausted slaves
Lay down the far-brought gift, and dieAnd, while her lute hung by her, hush'd, As if unequal to the tide
Of song, that from her lips still gush'd,
She raised, like one beatified,
Those eyes, whose light seem'd rather given
To be adored than to adore-
Such eyes, as may have look'd from heaven,
But ne'er were raised to it before!
Oh Love, Religion, Music1-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 stain'd 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 skies, The language of their native sphere, Which they had else forgotten here.
How then could ZARAPn 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, all too well
With warmth, that far too dearly costNor 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 die.
Blest union! by that Angel wove,
And worthy from such hands to come;
Safe, sole asylum, in which Love,
When fall'n or exiled from above,
In this dark world can find a home.
And, though the Spirit had transgress'd,
Had, from his station 'mong the bless'd
Won down by woman's smile, allow'd
Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er
The mirror of his heart, and cloud
God's image, there so bright before-
Yet never did that Power look down
On error with a brow se mild;
Never did Justice wear a frown,
Through which so gently Mercy smiled.
For humble was their love-with awe
And trembling like some treasure kept,
2 An allusion to the Sephiroths or Splendors of the Jewish Cabbala, represented as a tree, of which God is the crown or suinmit.
The Sephiroths are the higher orders of emanative beings in the strange and incomprehensible system of the Jewish
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,
Seem'd 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 bless'd?"
Still less could maid, o 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 wo-
Faith, that, were even its light removed,
Could, like the dial, fix'd remain,
And wait till it shone out again;
With Patience that, though often bow'd
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 beside,
Was the sole joy, ambition, pride
Of her fond heart-th' 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,
Abash'd, 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.
Cabbala. They are called by various names, Pity, Beauty, &c. &c.; and their influences are supposed to act throngh certain canals, which communicate with each other.
3 The reader may judge of the rationality of this Jewish system by the following explanation of part of the machinery: -" Les canaux qui sortent de la Miséricorde et de la Force,
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 vapor, ere they rise;
The doubt he feeds on, and the pain
That in his very sweetness lies :-
Still worse, th' 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 monauts rich in happiness-
Bless'd meetings, after many a day
Of widowhood pass'd far away,
When the loved face again is seen
Close, close, with not a tear between-
Confidings frank, without control,
Pour'd 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 freshen'd 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 forever 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 inhabitants-
Who 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, åre 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 strain-
Whose 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 th' other thrown, Is heaven's reflection, not their ownShould we e'er meet with aught so pure, So perfect here, we may be sure
"Tis ZARAPH and his bride we see; And call young lovers round, to view The pilgrim pair, as they pursue
Their pathway towards eternity.
"On les représente quelquefois sous la figure d'un arbre
• l'Ensoph qu'on met au-dessus de l'arbre Sephirotique ou des Splendeurs divins, est l'Infini."-L'Histoire des Juifs, liv. ix. 11.
ERE Psyche drank the cup, that shed
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said,
One drop of Doubt into the bowl
Which, mingling darkly with the stream,
To Psyche's lips-she knew not why-
Made even that blessed nectar seem
As though its sweetness soon would die.
Oft, in the very arms of Love,
A chill came o'er her heart-a fear That Death might, even yet, remove Her spirit from that happy sphere.
"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaim'd, "Twining them round her snowy fingers; "That forehead, where a light, unnamed, "Unknown on earth, forever lingers;
"Those lips, through which feel the breath "Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever"Say, are they mine, beyond all death, "My own, hereafter, and forever?
"Smile not-I know that starry brow, "Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine, "Will always shine, as they do now"But shall I live to see them shine?"
In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes "On all that sparkles round thee here"Thou'rt now in heaven, where nothing dies, "And in these arms-what canst thou fear?"
In vain the fatal drop, that stole
Into that cup's immortal treasure,
Had lodged its bitter near her soul,
And gave a tinge to every pleasure.
And, though there ne'er was transport given
Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,
Hers is the only face in heaven,
That wears a cloud amid its joy,
Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out,
Whatever statesmen did or said,
If not exactly brought about,
'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.
With NAP, if Russia went to war,
'Twas owing, under Providence,
To certain hints Ned gave the Czar-
(Vide his pamphlet-price, sixpence.)
If France was beat at Waterloo-
As all but Frenchmen think she was-
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day's applause.
Then for his news-no envoy's bag
E'er pass'd so many secrets through it;
Scarcely a telegraph could wag
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.
Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in! From Russia, chefs and ofs in lots,
From Poland, owskis by the dozen.
When George, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd-who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.
For though, by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright seen the King,
WHAT shall I sing thee? Shall I tell
Of that bright hour, remember'd well
As though it shone but yesterday,
When, loitering idly in the ray
Of a spring-sun, I heard, o'erhead,
My name as by some spirit said,
And, looking up, saw two bright eyes
Above me from a casement shine,
Dazzling my mind with such surprise
As they, who sail beyond the Line,
Feel when new stars above them rise ;-
And it was thine, the voice that spoke,
Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then;
And thine the eye, whose lustre broke-
Never to be forgot again!
What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave
A song of that sweet summer-eve,
(Summer, of which the sunniest part
Was that we, each, had in the heart,)
When thou and I, and one like thee,
In life and beauty, to the sound
Of our own breathless minstrelsy,
Danced till the sunlight faded round,
Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,
Lights, music, company, and all!
Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain
Of lute like mine, whose day is past,
To call up even a dream again
Of the fresh light those moments cast.
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