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

Of ALLA, as if most his own,

The Seraphs stand-this burning sign
Traced on their banner, "Love divine!"
Their rank, their honours, far above

Ev'n those to high-brow'd Cherubs given, Though knowing all ;-so much doth love

Transcend all Knowledge, ev'n in heaven!

'Mong these was ZARAPH once—and none E'er felt affection's holy fire,

Or yearn'd towards the' 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 thier dazzled sight, nor dare
To look upon the' 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.

'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 roll'd 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 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 't was 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 the' expiring waves
Flung their last offering with a sigh-
As, in the East, exhausted slaves

Lay down the far-brought gift, and die-
And, 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!

O 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 birth-
How 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 ZARAPH fail to feel

That moment's witcheries?-one, so fair,

Breathing out music, that might steal

Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer That scraphs 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.