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62
A FRAGMENT.
A farie soul wafted by God's own breath,
And fluttering from his Paradise of light,
Paused on the earth not many lustra since;
The soul was spotless as the angels are,
And its fair being thrilled yet with the touch
Of the immortal fingers, as they clasped
Its whiteness, glistening in eternity.
It struck a thrill of hope in happy hearts,
That beat to the blest melodies of home,
And seemed to add to the sweet household chords,
(Whose voice is the true music of the world,)
A golden string brought from a harp in heaven.
And fluttering from his Paradise of light,
Paused on the earth not many lustra since;
The soul was spotless as the angels are,
And its fair being thrilled yet with the touch
Of the immortal fingers, as they clasped
Its whiteness, glistening in eternity.
It struck a thrill of hope in happy hearts,
That beat to the blest melodies of home,
And seemed to add to the sweet household chords,
(Whose voice is the true music of the world,)
A golden string brought from a harp in heaven.
But things from God grow darkened with a blight
Whene'er they fall on the sin-blasted earth—
The soul that trembled into a strange life,
All dumb from the great glory of the Throne,
Hath trod the ways, and speaks the tongue of man;
Hath lost the mute, deep reverence, that hung
Like a celestial atmosphere of prayer
Round the pale purity just born in heaven;
And the bright home o'er which the Cherubim
Chaunted soft anthems, hath Decay enforced
To be the wanton of all winds that blow:
The pillar, and the pride of that charmèd sphere,
The strong Corinthian column crowned with grace,
Fell like a green young monarch of the woods,
Struck by a sudden whirlwind; and the dove,
The innocent dove, that brooded in its shade,
And clung to the deep shelter of its arms,
Hath fluttered wounded to the dreary earth,
And mourns the tenement that moulders near.
Whene'er they fall on the sin-blasted earth—
The soul that trembled into a strange life,
All dumb from the great glory of the Throne,
63
Hath lost the mute, deep reverence, that hung
Like a celestial atmosphere of prayer
Round the pale purity just born in heaven;
And the bright home o'er which the Cherubim
Chaunted soft anthems, hath Decay enforced
To be the wanton of all winds that blow:
The pillar, and the pride of that charmèd sphere,
The strong Corinthian column crowned with grace,
Fell like a green young monarch of the woods,
Struck by a sudden whirlwind; and the dove,
The innocent dove, that brooded in its shade,
And clung to the deep shelter of its arms,
Hath fluttered wounded to the dreary earth,
And mourns the tenement that moulders near.
Such are thy works, O Fate! and such thy will:
Thou art a Tyrant absolute in power,
But for a righteous purpose; God hath thrown
The burden of his judgments in thy hand,
To blast the pride of our humanity;
But in the far-off systems of the blest,
The cycles that are endless as their King,
Fate! the mysterious Conqueror of the Past,
The Present's incubus, the Future's storm,
Shorn of his gloominess, and freed from ties
Of the dark regency that God had given,
Will walk a glad immortal in the light
Of happier constellations,—even now,
Oftimes, beneath his habitude of hate,
We see the angel glory gleaming through.
Thou art a Tyrant absolute in power,
But for a righteous purpose; God hath thrown
The burden of his judgments in thy hand,
To blast the pride of our humanity;
But in the far-off systems of the blest,
The cycles that are endless as their King,
Fate! the mysterious Conqueror of the Past,
The Present's incubus, the Future's storm,
64
Of the dark regency that God had given,
Will walk a glad immortal in the light
Of happier constellations,—even now,
Oftimes, beneath his habitude of hate,
We see the angel glory gleaming through.
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