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None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell) Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.
In her highest noon,
The enamoured moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven)
Pauses in heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a dutyWhere Love's a grown-up God
Where the Houri glances are
Therefore, thou art not wrong,
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest !
Merrily live, and long!
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit— Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervour of thy lute Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, heaven is thine; but this
If I could dwell
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
HERE are some qualities-some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence-sea and shore
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
No power hath he of evil in himself;