 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
192
TO THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
Thou ancient Mystery! thy solemn night,—
Pierced by attempered rays from that far realm
That lies beyond, dark with excess of light,—
No more the shuddering spirit shall o'erwhelm.
Pierced by attempered rays from that far realm
That lies beyond, dark with excess of light,—
No more the shuddering spirit shall o'erwhelm.
No more thy charnel glooms the soul appall,
Pale Azrael! awful eidolon of Death!—
The dawn-light breaks athwart thy glimmering hall,
And thy dank vapors own the morning's breath.
Pale Azrael! awful eidolon of Death!—
The dawn-light breaks athwart thy glimmering hall,
And thy dank vapors own the morning's breath.
Too long the terror of the dread unknown
Hath the wrung heart with hopeless anguish riven;
The blasting splendors of the fiery throne
“Burning within the inmost veil of Heaven”—
Hath the wrung heart with hopeless anguish riven;
The blasting splendors of the fiery throne
“Burning within the inmost veil of Heaven”—
193
The gloom of that great glory, which of old
Haunted the vision of the prophet's dream,
When the archangel of the Lord foretold
The day of doom, by dark Hiddekel's stream.
Haunted the vision of the prophet's dream,
When the archangel of the Lord foretold
The day of doom, by dark Hiddekel's stream.
In vain, through lingering years, I turned the page
Rich with these sacred records of the past,
Hope languished, and no legend could assuage
The rayless gloom thy awful shadow cast.
Rich with these sacred records of the past,
Hope languished, and no legend could assuage
The rayless gloom thy awful shadow cast.
In dread apocalypse, I saw thee borne
On the pale steed, triumphant o'er the doomed,
Till the rent Heavens like a scroll were torn,
And hollow earth her hundred isles entombed.
On the pale steed, triumphant o'er the doomed,
Till the rent Heavens like a scroll were torn,
And hollow earth her hundred isles entombed.
In vain I questioned the cold stars, and kept
Lone vigils by the grave of buried love;
No angel wing athwart the darkness swept,
No voice vouchsafed my sorrow to reprove.
Lone vigils by the grave of buried love;
No angel wing athwart the darkness swept,
No voice vouchsafed my sorrow to reprove.
Was it the weight of that remorseless woe,
The lonely anguish of that long despair,—
That made thy marble lips at length forego
Their silence at my soul's unceasing prayer?
The lonely anguish of that long despair,—
That made thy marble lips at length forego
Their silence at my soul's unceasing prayer?
194
Henceforth, the sorrowing heart its pulse shall still
To solemn cadences of sweet repose,
Content life's mystic passion to fulfill
In the great calm that from thy promise flows.
To solemn cadences of sweet repose,
Content life's mystic passion to fulfill
In the great calm that from thy promise flows.
Welcome as the white feet of those who bring
Glad tidings of great joy unto the world,
Shall fall the shadow of thy silver wing
Over the weary couch of woe unfurled.
Glad tidings of great joy unto the world,
Shall fall the shadow of thy silver wing
Over the weary couch of woe unfurled.
A heavenly halo kindles round thy brow;
Beyond the palms of Eden softly wave;
Bright messengers athwart the empyrean go,
And love to love makes answer o'er the grave.
Beyond the palms of Eden softly wave;
Bright messengers athwart the empyrean go,
And love to love makes answer o'er the grave.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |