The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ye bright-wing'd Choir! who in the rays
Which beautify yon realm of glory,
Delight to read in rich amaze,
The archives of redemption's story,—
More magical your lustres seem
Than ever crowded poet's dream.

Before the countless stars began
To glisten through the dewy air,
Or Heaven perceived adoring man
Ascend her crystal height with prayer,
Your beaming Shapes, around the Throne,
Ages of wordless joy had known.

Serene, and passionless, and pure,
Unshaded by the hue of sin,
No discord can the will allure
To mar each moral tone within,—
That melody of sainted love,
The pulse of bliss which beats above.

Dread Angels! who excel in strength,
And sung creation's birthday song,
Or, through the world's unmeasured length
In viewless splendour wing'd along,—
When God commands them, glide and go,
With speed that proves the lightning slow!

Stern ministers of sacred wrath,
How often their avenging hands
Emptied God's vials o'er the path
Of guilt, and atheistic lands,
When blood and blasphemy began
To render earth a hell for man.

Yon cities, cinder'd by the burst
Of red destruction's rolling flame;
The myriads by the plague accurst,
Whose ruin darken'd David's name;
And banner'd hosts, which in one night
Were blasted by resistless blight,—

Oh! these reveal how dread and vast
In bodiless and bright array
Such Angels are, who have not cast
Their crowns of innocence away;
But ranged before the Godhead, still,
Brighten as each obeys His will.

And when we turn to that high Word
Where Christ, and church, and christian meet,
Are not emotions deeply stirr'd,
To mark above the Mercy-Seat
How studious Angels bend and strain,
To see what truths its depths contain?

Confirm'd, tho' not redeem'd by Him,
Lord of the radiant hosts above,
Legions of loyal seraphim
In Christ concenter all their love;
Thus saints and angels both combine
To chant the praise of Blood Divine.

And bless'd as beautiful the thought,
That when man's rebel-heart they see
Repent for sin the soul hath wrought,
They arch their wings in ecstasy;
While louder, louder swells the tone
These harpers chant around the Throne!

And is not earth the haunt and home
Of mysteries more than sense descries,
Where viewless Spirits round us roam,
Unvisioned by embodied eyes?—
Hence that which science never saw,
Seems more an angel than a law.

The motions of material things
So wonderful, involved, and vast,
Each hue and harmony that brings
Expression, where our looks are cast,
Serene, or exquisite, or grand,—
Some working angel may have plann'd.

And, when amid the flushing noon
Faith wanders forth in woods, or fields,
Or hearkens to the breezy tune
A choral landscape round her yields,
And thus with calm contentful eye
Drinks the deep spell of earth and sky,—

Then, dream not that impassive laws
Can e'er achieve what mind must do;
If each effect presumes a cause,
Let Nature have her master too;
Till all her work, beneath the sun
Seems duty, by an Angel done.

The meanest object man can view,
A herb, a pebble, or a ray
Which tints the grass with golden hue,
Might prompt poetic mind to pray;
And Faith can nothing coldly see,
If there angelic spell-work be.

And, oh! how solemn grows the scene
When not beheld as dumb and dead,
But one where spirits intervene,
And such a consecration shed,
That, like a temple, common air
Inspires religion every-where!

As features in some lovely face
Express the soul, eye cannot see,
And shadow forth with speaking grace
Each line of sorrow, hope, or glee,—
Moved elements may oft reveal
What angels from cold sense conceal.

Thus, sun and air, and cloud-graced heaven,
The lisping wave, or laughing wind,
With whatsoe'er to earth is given
Attuned to man's accordant mind,
Should make us dream, where'er we stray,
Unvision'd angels throng the way.

The sunbeam in its happy toil,
The breeze that fans an infant flower,
Those dew-falls which refresh the soil
Or beautify a sylvan bower,—
Pure Minds with peaceful wonder fill,
Who trace them to angelic skill.

The motion of mysterious storms
That glance and play with hectic gleam,
May be the flutter of their forms,
The glory which their garments beam,
When, summon'd by their vast control,
The fiery tempests flash and roll!