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9

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

11

['Twas when the world was in its prime]

'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory, and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When, in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,—
Ere sorrow came, or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
12

And mortals saw, without surprise,
In the mid-air, angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.
Alas, that Passion should profane,
Ev'n then, the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth—
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!
One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side, where hung the ray
Of sunset, brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they look'd, from time to time,
To the far sky, where Daylight furl'd
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world—
Spirits, who once, in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss, near Alla stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from Alla's throne ,
13

Creatures of light, such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And through their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!
Of Heaven they spoke, and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charm'd them thence;
Till, yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence—
The silent breathing of the flowers—
The melting light that beam'd above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,—
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When, like a bird, from its high nest
Won down by fascinating eyes,
For Woman's smile he lost the skies.
The First who spoke was one, with look
The least celestial of the three—
14

A Spirit of light mould, that took
The prints of earth most yieldingly;
Who, ev'n in heaven, was not of those
Nearest the Throne , but held a place
Far off, among those shining rows
That circle out through endless space,
And o'er whose wings the light from Him
In Heaven's centre falls most dim.
Still fair and glorious, he but shone
Among those youths the' unheavenliest one—
A creature, to whom light remain'd
From Eden still, but alter'd, stain'd,
And o'er whose brow not Love alone
A blight had, in his transit, cast,
But other, earthlier joys had gone,
And left their foot-prints as they pass'd.
15

Sighing, as back through ages flown,
Like a tomb-searcher, Memory ran,
Lifting each shroud that Time had thrown
O'er buried hopes, he thus began:—
 

The Mahometans believe, says D'Herbelot, that in that early period of the world, “les hommes n'eurent qu'une seule religion, et furent souvent visités des Anges, qui leur donnoient la main.”

“To which will be joined the sound of the bells hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the Throne, so often as the Blessed wish for music.” —See Sale's Koran, Prelim. Dissert.

The ancient Persians supposed that this Throne was placed in the Sun, and that through the stars were distributed the various classes of Angels that encircled it.

The Basilidians supposed that there were three hundred and sixty-five orders of angels, “dont la perfection alloit en décroissant, à mesure qu'ils s'éloignoient de la première classe d'esprits placés dans le premier ciel.”

See Dupuis, Orig. des Cultes, tom. ii. p. 112.
16

FIRST ANGEL'S STORY.

“'Twas in a land, that far away
Into the golden orient lies,
Where Nature knows not night's delay,
But springs to meet her bridegroom, Day,
Upon the threshold of the skies.
One morn, on earthly mission sent ,
And mid-way choosing where to light,
I saw, from the blue element—
Oh beautiful, but fatal sight!—
One of earth's fairest womankind,
Half veil'd from view, or rather shrin'd
In the clear crystal of a brook;
Which, while it hid no single gleam
Of her young beauties, made them look
More spirit-like, as they might seem
Through the dim shadowing of a dream.
17

Pausing in wonder I look'd on,
While, playfully around her breaking
The waters, that like diamonds shone,
She mov'd in light of her own making.
At length, as from that airy height
I gently lower'd my breathless flight,
The tremble of my wings all o'er
(For through each plume I felt the thrill)
Startled her, as she reach'd the shore
Of that small lake—her mirror still—
Above whose brink she stood, like snow
When rosy with a sunset glow.
Never shall I forget those eyes!—
The shame, the innocent surprise
Of that bright face, when in the air
Uplooking, she beheld me there.
It seem'd as if each thought, and look,
And motion were that minute chain'd
Fast to the spot, such root she took,
And—like a sunflower by a brook,
With face upturn'd—so still remain'd!
In pity to the wondering maid,
Though loth from such a vision turning,
18

Downward I bent, beneath the shade
Of my spread wings to hide the burning
Of glances, which—I well could feel—
For me, for her, too warmly shone;
But, ere I could again unseal
My restless eyes, or even steal
One sidelong look, the maid was gone—
Hid from me in the forest leaves,
Sudden as when, in all her charms
Of full-blown light, some cloud receives
The Moon into his dusky arms.
'Tis not in words to tell the power,
The despotism that, from that hour,
Passion held o'er me. Day and night
I sought around each neighbouring spot;
And, in the chase of this sweet light,
My task, and heaven, and all forgot;—
All, but the one, sole, haunting dream
Of her I saw in that bright stream.
Nor was it long, ere by her side
I found myself, whole happy days,
19

Listening to words, whose music vied
With our own Eden's seraph lays,
When seraph lays are warm'd by love,
But, wanting that, far, far above!—
And looking into eyes where, blue
And beautiful, like skies seen through
The sleeping wave, for me there shone
A heaven, more worshipp'd than my own.
Oh what, while I could hear and see
Such words and looks, was heaven to me?
Though gross the air on earth I drew,
'Twas blessed, while she breath'd it too;
Though dark the flowers, though dim the sky,
Love lent them light, while she was nigh.
Throughout creation I but knew
Two separate worlds—the one, that small,
Belov'd, and consecrated spot
Where Lea was—the other, all
The dull, wide waste, where she was not!
But vain my suit, my madness vain;
Though gladly, from her eyes to gain
One earthly look, one stray desire,
I would have torn the wings, that hung
20

Furl'd at my back, and o'er the Fire
In Gehim's pit their fragments flung;—
'Twas hopeless all—pure and unmov'd
She stood, as lilies in the light
Of the hot noon but look more white;—
And though she lov'd me, deeply lov'd,
'Twas not as man, as mortal—no,
Nothing of earth was in that glow—
She lov'd me but as one, of race
Angelic, from that radiant place
She saw so oft in dreams—that Heaven,
To which her prayers at morn were sent,
And on whose light she gaz'd at even,
Wishing for wings, that she might go
21

Out of this shadowy world below,
To that free, glorious element!
Well I remember by her side
Sitting at rosy even-tide,
When,—turning to the star, whose head
Look'd out, as from a bridal bed,
At that mute, blushing hour,—she said,
“Oh! that it were my doom to be
“The Spirit of yon beauteous star,
“Dwelling up there in purity,
“Alone, as all such bright things are;—
“My sole employ to pray and shine,
“To light my censer at the sun,
“And cast its fire towards the shrine
“Of Him in heaven, the Eternal One!”
So innocent the maid, so free
From mortal taint in soul and frame,
Whom 'twas my crime—my destiny—
To love, aye, burn for, with a flame,
To which earth's wildest fires are tame.
Had you but seen her look, when first
From my mad lips the' avowal burst;
22

Not anger'd—no—the feeling came
From depths beyond mere anger's flame—
It was a sorrow, calm as deep,
A mournfulness that could not weep,
So fill'd her heart was to the brink,
So fix'd and froz'n with grief, to think
That angel natures—that ev'n I,
Whose love she clung to, as the tie
Between her spirit and the sky—
Should fall thus headlong from the height
Of all that heaven hath pure and bright!
That very night—my heart had grown
Impatient of its inward burning;
The term, too, of my stay was flown,
And the bright Watchers near the throne,
Already, if a meteor shone
Between them and this nether zone,
Thought 'twas their herald's wing returning.
Oft did the potent spell-word, given
To Envoys hither from the skies,
To be pronounc'd, when back to heaven
It is their time or wish to rise,
23

Come to my lips that fatal day;
And once, too, was so nearly spoken,
That my spread plumage in the ray
And breeze of heaven began to play;—
When my heart fail'd—the spell was broken—
The word unfinish'd died away,
And my check'd plumes, ready to soar,
Fell slack and lifeless as before.
How could I leave a world, which she,
Or lost or won, made all to me?
No matter where my wanderings were,
So there she look'd, breath'd, mov'd about—
Woe, ruin, death, more sweet with her,
Than Paradise itself, without!
But, to return—that very day
A feast was held, where, full of mirth,
Came—crowding thick as flowers that play
In summer winds—the young and gay
And beautiful of this bright earth.
And she was there, and 'mid the young
And beautiful stood first, alone;
24

Though on her gentle brow still hung
The shadow I that morn had thrown—
The first, that ever shame or woe
Had cast upon its vernal snow.
My heart was madden'd;—in the flush
Of the wild revel I gave way
To all that frantic mirth—that rush
Of desperate gaiety, which they,
Who never felt how pain's excess
Can break out thus, think happiness!
Sad mimicry of mirth and life,
Whose flashes come but from the strife
Of inward passions—like the light
Struck out by clashing swords in fight.
Then, too, that juice of earth, the bane
And blessing of man's heart and brain—
That draught of sorcery, which brings
Phantoms of fair, forbidden things—
Whose drops, like those of rainbows, smile
Upon the mists that circle man,
Bright'ning not only Earth, the while,
But grasping Heaven, too, in their span!—
25

Then first the fatal wine-cup rain'd
Its dews of darkness through my lips ,
Casting whate'er of light remain'd
To my lost soul into eclipse;
And filling it with such wild dreams,
Such fantasies and wrong desires,
As, in the absence of heaven's beams,
Haunt us for ever—like wild-fires
That walk this earth, when day retires.
Now hear the rest;—our banquet done,
I sought her in the' accustom'd bower,
Where late we oft, when day was gone,
And the world hush'd, had met alone,
At the same silent, moonlight hour.
26

Her eyes, as usual, were upturn'd
To her lov'd star, whose lustre burn'd
Purer than ever on that night;
While she, in looking, grew more bright,
As though she borrow'd of its light.
There was a virtue in that scene,
A spell of holiness around,
Which, had my burning brain not been
Thus madden'd, would have held me bound,
As though I trod celestial ground.
Ev'n as it was, with soul all flame,
And lips that burn'd in their own sighs,
I stood to gaze, with awe and shame—
The memory of Eden came
Full o'er me when I saw those eyes;
And tho' too well each glance of mine
To the pale, shrinking maiden prov'd
How far, alas, from aught divine,
Aught worthy of so pure a shrine,
Was the wild love with which I lov'd,
Yet must she, too, have seen—oh yes,
'Tis soothing but to think she saw
27

The deep, true, soul-felt tenderness,
The homage of an Angel's awe
To her, a mortal, whom pure love
Then plac'd above him—far above—
And all that struggle to repress
A sinful spirit's mad excess,
Which work'd within me at that hour,
When, with a voice, where Passion shed
All the deep sadness of her power,
Her melancholy power—I said,
“Then be it so; if back to heaven
“I must unlov'd, unpitied fly,
“Without one blest memorial given
“To soothe me in that lonely sky;
“One look, like those the young and fond
“Give when they're parting—which would be,
“Ev'n in remembrance, far beyond
“All heaven hath left of bliss for me!
“Oh, but to see that head recline
“A minute on this trembling arm,
“And those mild eyes look up to mine,
“Without a dread, a thought of harm!
28

“To meet, but once, the thrilling touch
“Of lips too purely fond to fear me—
“Or, if that boon be all too much,
“Ev'n thus to bring their fragrance near me!
“Nay, shrink not so—a look—a word—
“Give them but kindly and I fly;
“Already, see, my plumes have stirr'd,
“And tremble for their home on high.
“Thus be our parting—cheek to cheek—
“One minute's lapse will be forgiven,
“And thou, the next, shalt hear me speak
“The spell that plumes my wing for heaven!”
While thus I spoke, the fearfull maid,
Of me, and of herself afraid,
Had shrinking stood, like flowers beneath
The scorching of the south-wind's breath:
But when I nam'd—alas, too well,
I now recall, though wilder'd then,—
Instantly, when I nam'd the spell,
Her brow, her eyes uprose again,
And, with an eagerness, that spoke
The sudden light that o'er her broke,
29

“The spell, the spell!—oh, speak it now,
“And I will bless thee!” she exlaim'd—
Unknowing what I did, inflam'd,
And lost already, on her brow
I stamp'd one burning kiss, and nam'd
The mystic word, till then ne'er told
To living creature of earth's mould!
Scarce was it said, when, quick as thought,
Her lips from mine, like echo, caught
The holy sound—her hands and eyes
Were instant lifted to the skies,
And thrice to heaven she spoke it out
With that triumphant look Faith wears,
When not a cloud of fear or doubt,
A vapour from this vale of tears,
Between her and her God appears!
That very moment her whole frame
All bright and glorified became,
And at her back I saw unclose
Two wings, magnificent as those
That sparkle around Alla's Throne,
Whose plumes, as buoyantly she rose
Above me, in the moon-beam shone
30

With a pure light, which—from its hue,
Unknown upon this earth—I knew
Was light from Eden, glistening through!
Most holy vision! ne'er before
Did aught so radiant—since the day
When Eblis, in his downfal, bore
The third of the bright stars away—
Rise, in earth's beauty, to repair
That loss of light and glory there!
But did I tamely view her flight?
Did not I, too, proclaim out thrice
The powerful words that were, that night,—
Oh ev'n for heaven too much delight!—
Again to bring us, eyes to eyes,
And soul to soul, in Paradise?
I did—I spoke it o'er and o'er—
I pray'd, I wept, but all in vain;
For me the spell had power no more.
There seem'd around me some dark chain
Which still, as I essay'd to soar,
Baffled, alas, each wild endeavour:
Dead lay my wings, as they have lain
31

Since tha sad hour, and will remain—
So wills the' offended God—for ever!
It was to yonder star I trac'd
Her journey up the' illumin'd waste—
That isle in the blue firmament,
To which so oft her fancy went
In wishes and in dreams before,
And which was now—such, Purity,
Thy blest reward—ordain'd to be
Her home of light for evermore!
Once—or did I but fancy so?—
Ev'n in her flight to that fair sphere,
Mid all her spirit's new-felt glow,
A pitying look she turn'd below
On him who stood in darkness here;
Him whom, perhaps, if vain regret
Can dwell in heaven, she pities yet;
And oft, when looking to this dim
And distant world, remembers him.
But soon that passing dream was gone;
Farther and farther off she shone,
32

Till lessen'd to a point, as small
As are those specks that yonder burn,—
Those vivid drops of light, that fall
The last from Day's exhausted urn.
And when at length she merg'd, afar,
Into her own immortal star,
And when at length my straining sight
Had caught her wing's last fading ray,
That minute from my soul the light
Of heaven and love both pass'd away;
And I forgot my home, my birth,
Profan'd my spirit, sunk my brow,
And revell'd in gross joys of earth,
Till I became—what I am now!”
The Spirit bow'd his head in shame;
A shame, that of itself would tell—
Were there not ev'n those breaks of flame,
Celestial, through his clouded frame—
How grand the height from which he fell!
That holy Shame, which ne'er forgets
The' unblench'd renown it us'd to wear;
Whose blush remains, when Virtue sets,
To show her sunshine has been there.
33

Once only, while the tale he told,
Were his eyes lifted to behold
That happy stainless star, where she
Dwelt in her bower of purity!
One minute did he look, and then—
As thou he felt some deadly pain
From its sweet light through heart and brain—
Shrunk back, and never look'd again.
 

It appears that, in most languages, the term employed for an angel means also a messenger. Firischteh, the Persian word for angel, is derived (says D'Herbelot) from the verb Firischtin, to send. The Hebrew term, too, Melak, has the same signification.

The name given by the Mahometans to the infernal regions, over which, they say, the angel Tabhek presides.

By the seven gates of hell, mentioned in the Koran, the commentators understand seven different departments or wards, in which seven different sorts of sinners are to be punished. The first, called Gehennem, is for sinful Mussulmans; the second, Ladha, for Christian offenders; the third, Hothama, is appointed for Jews; and the fourth and fifth, called Sair and Sacar, are destined to receive the Sabæans and the worshippers of fire: in the sixth, named Gehim, those pagans and idolaters who admit a plurality of gods are placed; while into the abyss of the seventh, called Derk Asfal, or the Deepest, the hypocritical canters of all religions are thrown.

I have already mentioned that some of the circumstances of this story were suggested to me by the eastern legend of the two angels, Harut and Marut, as given by Mariti, who says that the author of the Taalim founds upon it the Mahometan prohibition of wine. I have since found that Mariti's version of the tale (which differs also from that of Dr. Prideaux, in his Life of Mahomet,) is taken from the French Encyclopédie, in which work, under the head “Arot et Marot,” the reader will find it.

The Bahardanush tells the fable differently.

Who was the Second Spirit? he
With the proud front and piercing glance—
Who seem'd, when viewing heaven's expanse,
As though his far-sent eye could see
On, on into the' Immensity
Behind the veils of that blue sky,
Where Alla's grandest secrets lie?—
His wings, the while, though day was gone,
Flashing with many a various hue
Of light they from themselves alone,
Instinct with Eden's brightness, drew.
34

'Twas Rubi—once among the prime
And flower of those bright creatures, nam'd
Spirits of Knowledge , who o'er Time
And Space and Thought an empire claim'd,
Second alone to Him, whose light
Was, ev'n to theirs, as day to night;
'Twixt whom and them was distance far
And wide, as would the journey be
To reach from any island star
The vague shores of Infinity!
'Twas Rubi, in whose mournful eye
Slept the dim light of days gone by;
Whose voice, though sweet, fell on the ear
Like echoes, in some silent place,
When first awak'd for many a year;
And when he smil'd, if o'er his face
Smile ever shone, 'twas like the grace
Of moonlight rainbows, fair, but wan,
The sunny life, the glory gone.
35

Ev'n o'er his pride, though still the same,
A softening shade from sorrow came;
And though at times his spirit knew
The kindlings of disdain and ire,
Short was the fitful glare they threw—
Like the last flashes, fierce but few,
Seen through some noble pile on fire!
Such was the Angel, who now broke
The silence that had come o'er all,
When he, the Spirit that last spoke,
Clos'd the sad history of his fall;
And, while a sacred lustre, flown
For many a day, relum'd his cheek—
Beautiful, as in days of old;
And no those eloquent lips alone
But every feature seem'd to speak—
Thus his eventful story told:—
 

The Kerubiim, as the Mussulmans call them, are often joined indiscriminately with the Asrafil or Seraphim, under one common name of Azazil, by which all spirits who approach near the throne of Alla are designated.

36

SECOND ANGEL'S STORY.

“You both remember well the day,
When unto Eden's new-made bowers,
Alla convok'd the bright array
Of his supreme angelic powers,
To witness the one wonder yet,
Beyond man, angel, star, or sun,
He must achieve, ere he could set
His seal upon the world, as done—
To see that last perfection rise,
That crowning of creation's birth,
When, mid the worship and surprise
Of circling angels, Woman's eyes
First open'd upon heaven and earth;
And from their lids a thrill was sent,
That through each living spirit went
Like first light through the firmament!
Can you forget how gradual stole
The fresh-awaken'd breath of soul
37

Throughout her perfect form—which seem'd
To grow transparent, as there beam'd
That dawn of Mind within, and caught
New loveliness from each new thought?
Slow as o'er summer seas we trace
The progress of the noontide air,
Dimpling its bright and silent face
Each minute into some new grace,
And varying heaven's reflections there—
Or, like the light of evening, stealing
O'er some fair temple, which all day
Hath slept in shadow, slow revealing
Its several beauties, ray by ray,
Till it shines out, a thing to bless,
All full of light and loveliness.
Can you forget her blush, when round
Through Eden's lone, enchanted ground
She look'd, and saw, the sea—the skies—
And heard the rush of many a wing,
On high behests then vanishing;
And saw the last few angel eyes,
Still lingering—mine among the rest,—
Reluctant leaving scenes so blest?
38

From that miraculous hour, the fate
Of this new, glorious Being dwelt
For ever, with a spell-like weight,
Upon my spirit—early, late,
Whate'er I did, or dream'd, or felt,
The thought of what might yet befall
That matchless creature mix'd with all.—
Nor she alone, but her whole race
Through ages yet to come—whate'er
Of feminine, and fond, and fair,
Should spring from that pure mind and face,
All wak'd my soul's intensest care;
Their forms, souls, feelings, still to me
Creation's strangest mystery!
It was my doom—ev'n from the first,
When witnessing the primal burst
Of Nature's wonders, I saw rise
Those bright creations in the skies,—
Those worlds instinct with life and light,
Which Man, remote, but sees by night,—
It was my doom still to be haunted
By some new wonder, some sublime
And matchless work, that, for the time
Held all my soul, enchain'd, enchanted,
39

And left me not a thought, a dream,
A word, but on that only theme!
The wish to know—that endless thirst,
Which ev'n by quenching is awak'd,
And which becomes or blest or curst,
As is the fount whereat 'tis slak'd—
Still urg'd me onward, with desire
Insatiate, to explore, inquire—
Whate'er the wondrous things might be,
That wak'd each new idolatry—
Their cause, aim, source, whence-ever sprung—
Their inmost powers, as though for me
Existence on that knowledge hung.
Oh what a vision were the stars,
When first I saw them burn on high,
Rolling along, like living cars
Of light, for gods to journey by!
40

They were my heart's first passion—days
And nights, unwearied, in their rays
Have I hung floating, till each sense
Seem'd full of their bright influence.
Innocent joy! alas, how much
Of misery had I shunn'd below,
Could I have still liv'd blest with such;
Nor, proud and restless, burn'd to know
The knowledge that brings guilt and woe.
Often—so much I lov'd to trace
The secrets of this starry race—
Have I at morn and evening run
Along the lines of radiance spun
Like webs, between them and the sun,
Untwisting all the tangled ties
Of light into their different dyes—
Then fleetly wing'd I off, in quest
Of those, the farthest, loneliest,
41

That watch, like winking sentinels ,
The void, beyond which Chaos dwells;
And there, with noiseless plume, pursued
Their track through that grand solitude,
Asking intently all and each
What soul within their radiance dwelt,
And wishing their sweet light were speech,
That they might tell me all they felt.
Nay, oft, so passionate my chase
Of these resplendent heirs of space,
Oft did I follow—lest a ray
Should 'scape me in the farthest night—
Some pilgrim Comet, on his way
To visit distant shrines of light,
And well remember how I sung
Exultingly, when on my sight
42

New worlds of stars, all fresh and young,
As if just born of darkness, sprung!
Such was my pure ambition then,
My sinless transport, night and morn;
Ere yet this newer world of men,
And that most fair of stars was born
Which I, in fatal hour, saw rise
Among the flowers of Paradise!
Thenceforth my nature all was chang'd,
My heart, soul, senses turn'd below;
And he, who but so lately rang'd
Yon wonderful expanse, where glow
Worlds upon worlds,—yet found his mind
Ev'n in that luminous range confin'd,—
Now blest the humblest, meanest sod
Of the dark earth where Woman trod!
In vain my former idols glisten'd
From their far thrones; in vain these ears
To the once-thrilling music listen'd,
That hymn'd around my favourite spheres—
To earth, to earth each thought was given,
That in this half-lost soul had birth;
43

Like some high mount, whose head's in heaven,
While its whole shadow rests on earth!
Nor was it Love, ev'n yet, that thrall'd
My spirit in his burning ties;
And less, still less could it be call'd
That grosser flame, round which Love flies
Nearer and nearer, till he dies—
No, it was wonder, such as thrill'd
At all God's works my dazzled sense;
The same rapt wonder, only fill'd
With passion, more profound, intense,—
A vehement, but wandering fire,
Which, though nor love, nor yet desire,—
Though through all womankind it took
Its range, as lawless lightnings run,
Yet wanted but a touch, a look,
To fix it burning upon One.
Then, too, the ever-restless zeal,
The' insatiate curiosity
To know how shapes, so fair, must feel—
To look, but once, beneath the seal
Of so much loveliness, and see
44

What souls belong'd to such bright eyes—
Whether, as sun-beams find their way
Into the gem that hidden lies,
Those looks could inward turn their ray,
And make the soul as bright as they:
All this impell'd my anxious chase,
And still the more I saw and knew
Of Woman's fond, weak, conquering race,
The' intenser still my wonder grew.
I had beheld their First, their Eve,
Born in that splendid Paradise,
Which sprung there solely to receive
The first light of her waking eyes.
I had seen purest angels lean
In worship o'er her from above;
And man—oh yes, had envying seen
Proud man possess'd of all her love.
I saw their happiness, so brief,
So exquisite,—her error, too,
That easy trust, that prompt belief
In what the warm heart wishes true;
45

That faith in words, when kindly said,
By which the whole fond sex is led—
Mingled with—what I durst not blame,
For 'tis my own—that zeal to know,
Sad, fatal zeal, so sure of woe;
Which, though from heaven all pure it came,
Yet stain'd, misus'd, brought sin and shame
On her, on me, on all below!
I had seen this; had seen Man, arm'd,
As his soul is, with strength and sense,
By her first words to ruin charm'd;
His vaunted reason's cold defence,
Like an ice-barrier in the ray
Of melting summer, smil'd away.
Nay, stranger yet, spite of all this—
Though by her counsels taught to err,
Though driv'n from Paradise for her,
(And with her—that, at least, was bliss,)
Had I not heard him, ere he crost
The threshold of that earthly heaven,
Which by her wildering smile he lost—
So quickly was the wrong forgiven!—
46

Had I not heard him, as he prest
The frail, fond trembler to a breast
Which she had doom'd to sin and strife,
Call her—ev'n then—his Life! his Life!
Yes, such the love-taught name, the first,
That ruin'd Man to Woman gave,
Ev'n in his outcast hour, when curst
By her fond witchery, with that worst
And earliest boon of love, the grave!
She, who brought death into the world,
There stood before him, with the light
Of their lost Paradise still bright
Upon those sunny locks, that curl'd
Down her white shoulders to her feet—
So beautiful in form, so sweet
In heart and voice, as to redeem
The loss, the death of all things dear,
Except herself—and make it seem
Life, endless Life, while she was near!
47

Could I help wondering at a creature,
Thus circled round with spells so strong—
One, to whose every thought, word, feature,
In joy and woe, through right and wrong,
Such sweet omnipotence heaven gave,
To bless or ruin, curse or save?
Nor did the marvel cease with her—
New Eves in all her daughters came,
As strong to charm, as weak to err,
As sure of man through praise and blame,
Whate'er they brought him, pride or shame,
He still the' unreasoning worshipper,
And they, throughout all time, the same
Enchantresses of soul and frame,
Into whose hands, from first to last,
This world with all its destinies,
Devotedly by heaven seems cast,
To save or ruin, as they please!
Oh, 'tis not to be told how long,
How restlessly I sigh'd to find
Some one, from out that witching throng,
Some abstract of the form and mind
48

Of the whole matchless sex, from which,
In my own arms beheld, possest,
I might learn all the powers to witch,
To warm, and (if my fate unblest
Would have it) ruin, of the rest!
Into whose inward soul and sense
I might descend, as doth the bee
Into the flower's deep heart, and thence
Rifle, in all its purity,
The prime, the quintessence, the whole
Of wondrous Woman's frame and soul!
At length, my burning wish, my prayer—
(For such—oh what will tongues not dare,
When hearts go wrong?—this lip preferr'd)—
At length my ominous prayer was heard—
But whether heard in heaven or hell,
Listen—and thou wilt know too well.
There was a maid, of all who move
Like visions o'er this orb, most fit
To be a bright young angel's love,
Herself so bright, so exquisite!
The pride, too, of her step, as light
Along the' unconscious earth she went,
49

Seem'd that of one, born with a right
To walk some heav'nlier element,
And tread in places where her feet
A star at every step should meet.
'Twas not alone that loveliness
By which the wilder'd sense is caught—
Of lips, whose very breath could bless;
Of playful blushes, that seem'd nought
But luminous escapes of thought;
Of eyes that, when by anger stirr'd,
Were fire itself, but, at a word
Of tenderness, all soft became
As though they could, like the sun's bird,
Dissolve away in their own flame—
Of form, as pliant as the shoots
Of a young tree, in vernal flower;
Yet round and glowing as the fruits,
That drop from it in summer's hour;—
'Twas not alone this loveliness
That falls to loveliest women's share,
Though, even here, her form could spare
From its own beauty's rich excess
Enough to make ev'n them more fair—
50

But 'twas the Mind, outshining clear
Through her whole frame—the soul, still near,
To light each charm, yet independent
Of what it lighted, as the sun
That shines on flowers, would be resplendent
Were there no flowers to shine upon—
'Twas this, all this, in one combin'd—
The' unnumber'd looks and arts that form
The glory of young woman-kind,
Taken, in their perfection, warm,
Ere time had chill'd a single charm,
And stamp'd with such a seal of Mind,
As gave to beauties, that might be
Too sensual else, too unrefin'd,
The impress of Divinity!
'Twas this—a union, which the hand
Of Nature kept for her alone,
Of every thing most playful, bland,
Voluptuous, spiritual, grand,
In angel-natures and her own—
Oh this it was that drew me nigh
One, who seem'd kin to heaven as I,
A bright twin-sister from on high—
51

One, in whose love, I felt, were given
The mix'd delights of either sphere,
All that the spirit seeks in heaven,
And all the senses burn for here.
Had we—but hold—hear every part
Of our sad tale—spite of the pain
Remembrance gives, when the fix'd dart
Is stirr'd thus in the wound again—
Hear every step, so full of bliss,
And yet so ruinous, that led
Down to the last, dark precipice,
Where perish'd both—the fall'n, the dead!
From the first hour she caught my sight,
I never left her—day and night
Hovering unseen around her way,
And mid her loneliest musings near,
I soon could track each thought that lay,
Gleaming within her heart, as clear
As pebbles within brooks appear;
And there, among the countless things
That keep young hearts for ever glowing,
52

Vague wishes, fond imaginings,
Love-dreams, as yet no object knowing—
Light, winged hopes, that come when bid,
And rainbow joys that end in weeping;
And passions, among pure thoughts hid,
Like serpents under flow'rets sleeping:—
'Mong all these feelings—felt where'er
Young hearts are beating—I saw there
Proud thoughts, aspirings high—beyond
Whate'er yet dwelt in soul so fond—
Glimpses of glory, far away
Into the bright, vague future given;
And fancies, free and grand, whose play,
Like that of eaglets, is near heaven!
With this, too—what a soul and heart
To fall beneath the tempter's art!—
A zeal for knowledge, such as ne'er
Enshrin'd itself in form so fair,
Since that first, fatal hour, when Eve,
With every fruit of Eden blest,
Save one alone—rather than leave
That one unreach'd, lost all the rest.
It was in dreams that first I stole
With gentle mastery o'er her mind—
53

In that rich twilight of the soul,
When reason's beam, half hid behind
The clouds of sleep, obscurely gilds
Each shadowy shape the Fancy builds—
'Twas then, by that soft light, I brought
Vague, glimmering visions to her view;—
Catches of radiance, lost when caught,
Bright labyrinths, that led to nought,
And vistas, with no pathway through;—
Dwellings of bliss, that opening shone,
Then clos'd, dissolv'd, and left no trace—
All that, in short, could tempt Hope on,
But give her wing no resting-place;
Myself the while, with brow, as yet,
Pure as the young moon's coronet,
Through every dream still in her sight,

The' enchanter of each mocking scene,
Who gave the hope, then brought the blight,
Who said, “Behold yon world of light,”
Then sudden dropt a veil between!
At length, when I perceiv'd each thought,
Waking or sleeping, fix'd on nought
But these illusive scenes, and me—
54

The phantom, who thus came and went,
In half revealments, only meant
To madden curiosity—
When by such various arts I found
Her fancy to its utmost wound,
One night—'twas in a holy spot,
Which she for pray'r had chos'n—a grot
Of purest marble, built below
Her garden beds, through which a glow
From lamps invisible then stole,
Brightly pervading all the place—
Like that mysterious light the soul,
Itself unseen, sheds through the face.
There, at her altar while she knelt,
And all that woman ever felt,
When God and man both claim'd her sighs—
Every warm thought, that ever dwelt,
Like summer clouds, 'twixt earth and skies,
Too pure to fall, too gross to rise,
Spoke in her gestures, tones, and eyes—
Then, as the mystic light's soft ray
Grew softer still, as tho' its ray
Was breath'd from her, I heard her say:—
55

“Oh idol of my dreams! whate'er
“Thy nature be—human, divine,
“Or but half heav'nly—still too fair,
“Too heavenly to be ever mine!
“Wonderful Spirit, who dost make
“Slumber so lovely, that it seems
“No longer life to live awake,
“Since heaven itself descends in dreams,
“Why do I ever lose thee? why
“When on thy realms and thee I gaze
“Still drops that veil, which I could die,
“Oh gladly, but one hour to raise?
“Long ere such miracles as thou
“And thine came o'er my thoughts, a thirst
“For light was in this soul, which now
“Thy looks have into passion nurs'd.
“There's nothing bright above, below,
“In sky—earth—ocean, that this breast
“Doth not intensely burn to know,
“And thee, thee, thee, o'er all the rest!
56

“Then come, oh Spirit, from behind
“The curtains of thy radiant home,
“If thou would'st be as angel shrin'd,
“Or lov'd and clasp'd as mortal, come!
“Bring all thy dazzling wonders here,
“That I may, waking, know and see;
“Or waft me hence to thy own sphere,
“Thy heaven or—aye, even that with thee!
“Demon or God, who hold'st the book
“Of knowledge spread beneath thine eye,
“Give me, with thee, but one bright look
“Into its leaves, and let me die!
“By those ethereal wings, whose way
“Lies through an element, so fraught
“With living Mind, that, as they play,
“Their every movement is a thought!
“By that bright, wreathed hair, between
“Whose sunny clusters the sweet wind
“Of Paradise so late hath been,
“And left its fragrant soul behind!
57

“By those impassion'd eyes, that melt
“Their light into the inmost heart;
“Like sunset in the waters, felt
“As molten fire through every part—
“I do implore thee, oh most bright
“And worshipp'd Spirit, shine but o'er
“My waking, wondering eyes this night,
“This one blest night—I ask no more!”
Exhausted, breathless, as she said
These burning words, her languid head
Upon the altar's steps she cast,
As if that brain-throb were its last—
Till, startled by the breathing, nigh,
Of lips, that echoed back her sigh,
Sudden her brow again she rais'd;
And there, just lighted on the shrine,
Beheld me—not as I had blaz'd
Around her, full of light divine,
In her late dreams, but soften'd down
Into more mortal grace;—my crown
58

Of flowers, too radiant for this world,
Left hanging on yon starry steep;
My wings shut up, like banners furl'd,
When Peace hath put their pomp to sleep;
Or like autumnal clouds, that keep
Their lightnings sheath'd, rather than mar
The dawning hour of some young star;
And nothing left, but what beseem'd
The' accessible, though glorious mate
Of mortal woman—whose eyes beam'd
Back upon hers, as passionate;
Whose ready heart brought flame for flame,
Whose sin, whose madness was the same;
And whose soul lost, in that one hour,
For her and for her love—oh more
Of heaven's light than ev'n the power
Of heav'n itself could now restore!
And yet, that hour!”—
The Spirit here
Stopp'd in his utterance, as if words
Gave way beneath the wild career
Of his then rushing thoughts—like chords,
59

Midway in some enthusiast's song,
Breaking beneath a touch too strong;
While the clench'd hand upon the brow
Told how remembrance throbb'd there now!
But soon 'twas o'er—that casual blaze
From the sunk fire of other days—
That relic of a flame, whose burning
Had been too fierce to be relum'd,
Soon pass'd away, and the youth, turning
To his bright listeners, thus resum'd:—
“Days, months elaps'd, and, though what most
On earth I sigh'd for was mine, all—
Yet—was I happy? God, thou know'st,
Howe'er they smile, and feign, and boast,
What happiness is theirs, who fall!
'Twas bitterest anguish—made more keen
Ev'n by the love, the bliss, between
Whose throbs it came, like gleams of hell
In agonizing cross-light given
Athwart the glimpses, they who dwell
In purgatory catch of heaven!
60

The only feeling that to me
Seem'd joy—or rather my sole rest
From aching misery—was to see
My young, proud, blooming Lilis blest.
She, the fair fountain of all ill
To my lost soul—whom yet its thirst
Fervidly panted after still,
And found the charm fresh as at first—
To see her happy—to reflect
Whatever beams still round me play'd
Of former pride, of glory wreck'd,
On her, my Moon, whose light I made,
And whose soul worshipp'd ev'n my shade—
This was, I own, enjoyment—this
My sole, last lingering glimpse of bliss.
61

And proud she was, fair creature!—proud,
Beyond what ev'n most queenly stirs
In woman's heart, nor would have bow'd
That beautiful young brow of hers
To aught beneath the First above,
So high she deem'd her Cherub's love!
Then, too, that passion, hourly growing
Stronger and stronger—to which even
Her love, at times, gave way—of knowing
Every thing strange in earth and heaven;
Not only all that, full reveal'd,
The' eternal Alla loves to show,
But all that He hath wisely seal'd
In darkness, for man not to know—
Ev'n this desire, alas, ill-starr'd
And fatal as it was, I sought
To feed each minute, and unbarr'd
Such realms of wonder on her thought,
As ne'er, till then, had let their light
Escape on any mortal's sight!
In the deep earth—beneath the sea—
Through caves of fire—through wilds of air—
62

Wherever sleeping Mystery
Had spread her curtain, we were there—
Love still beside us, as we went,
At home in each new element,
And sure of worship every where!
Then first was Nature taught to lay
The wealth of all her kingdoms down
At woman's worshipp'd feet, and say,
“Bright creature, this is all thine own!”
Then first were diamonds, from the night ,
Of earth's deep centre brought to light,
And made to grace the conquering way
Of proud young beauty with their ray.
63

Then, too, the pearl from out its shell
Unsightly, in the sunless sea,
(As 'twere a spirit, forc'd to dwell
In form unlovely) was set free,
And round the neck of woman threw
A light it lent and borrow'd too.
For never did this maid—whate'er
The' ambition of the hour—forget
Her sex's pride in being fair;
Nor that adornment, tasteful, rare,
Which makes the mighty magnet, set
In Woman's form, more mighty yet.
Nor was there aught within the range
Of my swift wing in sea or air,
Of beautiful, or grand, or strange,
That, quickly as her wish could change,
I did not seek, with such fond care,
That when I've seen her look above
At some bright star admiringly,
I've said, “Nay, look not there, my love ,
Alas, I cannot give it thee!”
64

But not alone the wonders found
Through Nature's realm—the' unveil'd, material,
Visible glories, that abound,
Through all her vast, enchanted ground—
But whatsoe'er unseen, ethereal,
Dwells far away from human sense,
Wrapp'd in its own intelligence—
The mystery of that Fountain-head,
From which all vital spirit runs,
All breath of Life, where'er 'tis spread
Through men or angels, flowers or suns—
The workings of the' Almighty Mind,
When first o'er Chaos he design'd
The outlines of this world; and through
That depth of darkness—like the bow,
Call'd out of rain-clouds, hue by hue —
Saw the grand, gradual picture grow;—
The covenant with human kind
By Alla made —the chains of Fate
65

He round himself and them hath twin'd,
Till his high task he consummate;—
Till good from evil, love from hate,
Shall be work'd out through sin and pain,
And Fate shall loose her iron chain,
And all be free, be bright again!
Such were the deep-drawn mysteries,
And some, ev'n more obscure, profound,
And wildering to the mind than these,
Which—far as woman's thought could sound,
Or a fall'n, outlaw'd spirit reach—
She dar'd to learn, and I to teach.
Till—fill'd with such unearthly lore,
And mingling the pure light it brings
With much that fancy had, before,
Shed in false, tinted glimmerings—
The' enthusiast girl spoke out, as one
Inspir'd, among her own dark race,
Who from their ancient shrines would run,
Leaving their holy rites undone,
To gaze upon her holier face.
66

And, though but wild the things she spoke,
Yet, mid that play of error's smoke
Into fair shapes by fancy curl'd,
Some gleams of pure religion broke—
Glimpses, that have not yet awoke,
But startled the still dreaming world!
Oh, many a truth, remote, sublime,
Which Heav'n would from the minds of men
Have kept conceal'd, till its own time,
Stole out in these revealments then—
Revealments dim, that have fore-run,
By ages, the great, Sealing One!
Like that imperfect dawn, or light
Escaping from the Zodiac's signs,
Which makes the doubtful east half bright,
Before the real morning shines!
Thus did some moons of bliss go by—
Of bliss to her, who saw but love
67

And knowledge throughout earth and sky;
To whose enamour'd soul and eye,
I seem'd—as is the sun on high—
The light of all below, above,
The spirit of sea, and land, and air,
Whose influence, felt every where,
Spread from its centre, her own heart,
Ev'n to the world's extremest part;
While through that world her reinless mind
Had now career'd so fast and far,
That earth itself seem'd left behind,
And her proud fancy, unconfin'd,
Already saw Heaven's gates ajar!
Happy enthusiast! still, oh, still
Spite of my own heart's mortal chill,
Spite of that double-fronted sorrow,
Which looks at once before and back,
Beholds the yesterday, the morrow,
And sees both comfortless, both black—
Spite of all this, I could have still
In her delight forgot all ill;
Or, if pain would not be forgot,
At least have borne and murmur'd not.
68

When thoughts of an offended heaven,
Of sinfulness, which I—ev'n I,
While down its steep most headlong driven—
Well knew could never be forgiven,
Came o'er me with an agony
Beyond all reach of mortal woe—
A torture kept for those who know,
Know every thing, and—worst of all—
Know and love Virtue while they fall!
Ev'n then, her presence had the power
To soothe, to warm—nay, ev'n to bless—
If ever bliss could graft its flower
On stem so full of bitterness—
Ev'n then her glorious smile to me
Brought warmth and radiance, if not balm;
Like moonlight o'er a troubled sea,
Brightening the storm it cannot calm.
Oft, too, when that disheartening fear,
Which all who love, beneath yon sky,
Feel, when they gaze on what is dear—
The dreadful thought that it must die!
That desolating thought, which comes
Into men's happiest hours and homes;
69

Whose melancholy boding flings
Death's shadow o'er the brightest things,
Sicklies the infant's bloom, and spreads
The grave beneath young lovers' heads!
This fear, so sad to all—to me
Most full of sadness, from the thought
That I must still live on , when she
Would, like the snow that on the sea
Fell yesterday, in vain be sought;
That heaven to me this final seal
Of all earth's sorrow would deny,
And I eternally must feel
The death-pang, without power to die!
Ev'n this, her fond endearments—fond
As ever cherish'd the sweet bond
'Twixt heart and heart—could charm away;
Before her look no clouds would stay,
Or, if they did, their gloom was gone,
Their darkness put a glory on!
70

But 'tis not, 'tis not for the wrong,
The guilty, to be happy long;
And she, too, now, had sunk within
The shadow of her tempter's sin,
Too deep for ev'n Omnipotence
To snatch the fated victim thence!
Listen, and, if a tear there be
Left in your hearts, weep it for me.
'Twas on the evening of a day,
Which we in love had dreamt away;
In that same garden, where—the pride
Of seraph splendour laid aside,
And those wings furl'd, whose open light
For mortal gaze were else too bright—
I first had stood before her sight,
And found myself—oh, ecstasy,
Which ev'n in pain I ne'er forget—
Worshipp'd as only God should be,
And lov'd as never man was yet!
In that same garden were we now,
Thoughtfully side by side reclining,
Her eyes turn'd upward, and her brow
With its own silent fancies shining.
71

It was an evening bright and still
As ever blush'd on wave or bower,
Smiling from heaven, as if nought ill
Could happen in so sweet an hour.
Yet, I remember, both grew sad
In looking at that light—ev'n she,
Of heart so fresh, and brow so glad,
Felt the still hour's solemnity,
And thought she saw, in that repose,
The death-hour not alone of light,
But of this whole fair world—the close
Of all things beautiful and bright—
The last, grand sunset, in whose ray
Nature herself died calm away!
At length, as though some livelier thought
Had suddenly her fancy caught,
She turn'd upon me her dark eyes,
Dilated into that full shape
They took in joy, reproach, surprise,
As 'twere to let more soul escape,
And, playfully as on my head
Her white hand rested, smil'd and said:—
72

“I had, last night, a dream of thee,
“Resembling those divine ones, given,
“Like preludes to sweet minstrelsy,
“Before thou cam'st, thyself, from heaven.
“The same rich wreath was on thy brow,
“Dazzling as if of starlight made;
“And these wings, lying darkly now,
“Like meteors round thee flash'd and play'd.
“Thou stood'st, all bright, as in those dreams,
“As if just wafted from above;
“Mingling earth's warmth with heaven's beams,
“A creature to adore and love.
“Sudden I felt thee draw me near
“To thy pure heart, where, fondly plac'd,
“I seem'd within the atmosphere
“Of that exhaling light embrac'd;
“And felt, methought, the' ethereal flame
“Pass from thy purer soul to mine;
“Till—oh, too blissful—I became,
“Like thee, all spirit, all divine!
73

“Say, why did dream so blest come o'er me,
“If, now I wake, 'tis faded, gone?
“When will my Cherub shine before me
“Thus radiant, as in heaven he shone?
“When shall I, waking, be allow'd
“To gaze upon those perfect charms,
“And clasp thee once, without a cloud,
“A chill of earth, within these arms?
“Oh what a pride to say, this, this
“Is my own Angel—all divine,
“And pure, and dazzling as he is,
“And fresh from heaven—he's mine, he's mine!
“Think'st thou, were Lilis in thy place,
“A creature of yon lofty skies,
“She would have hid one single grace,
“One glory from her lover's eyes?
“No, no—then, if thou lov'st like me,
“Shine out, young Spirit, in the blaze
“Of thy most proud divinity,
“Nor think thou'lt wound this mortal gaze.
74

“Too long and oft I've look'd upon
“Those ardent eyes, intense ev'n thus—
“Too near the stars themselves have gone,
“To fear aught grand or luminous.
“Then doubt me not—oh, who can say
“But that this dream may yet come true,
“And my blest spirit drink thy ray,
“Till it becomes all heavenly too?
“Let me this once but feel the flame
“Of those spread wings, the very pride
“Will change my nature, and this frame
“By the mere touch be deified!”
Thus spoke the maid, as one, not us'd
To be by earth or heav'n refus'd—
As one, who knew her influence o'er
All creatures, whatsoe'er they were,
And, though to heaven she could not soar,
At least would bring down heaven to her.
Little did she, alas, or I—
Ev'n I, whose soul, but half-way yet
75

Immerg'd in sin's obscurity
Was as the earth whereon we lie,
O'er half whose disk the sun is set—
Little did we foresee the fate,
The dreadful—how can it be told?
Such pain, such anguish to relate
Is o'er again to feel, behold!
But, charg'd as 'tis, my heart must speak
Its sorrow out, or it will break!
Some dark misgivings had, I own,
Pass'd for a moment through my breast—
Fears of some danger, vague, unknown,
To one, or both—something unblest
To happen from this proud request.
But soon these boding fancies fled;
Nor saw I aught that could forbid
My full revealment, save the dread
Of that first dazzle, when, unhid,
Such light should burst upon a lid
Ne'er tried in heaven;—and ev'n this glare
She might, by love's own nursing care,
Be, like young eagles, taught to bear.
For well I knew, the lustre shed
From cherub wings, when proudliest spread,
76

Was, in its nature, lambent, pure,
And innocent as is the light
The glow-worm hangs out to allure
Her mate to her green bower at night.
Oft had I, in the mid-air, swept
Through clouds in which the lightning slept,
As in its lair, ready to spring,
Yet wak'd it not—though from my wing
A thousand sparks fell glittering!
Oft too when round me from above
The feather'd snow, in all its whiteness,
Fell, like the moultings of heaven's Dove ,—
So harmless, though so full of brightness,
77

Was my brow's wreath, that it would shake
From off its flowers each downy flake
As delicate, unmelted, fair,
And cool as they had lighted there.
Nay ev'n with Lilis—had I not
Around her sleep all radiant beam'd,
Hung o'er her slumbers, nor forgot
To kiss her eye-lids, as she dream'd?
And yet, at morn, from that repose,
Had she not wak'd, unscath'd and bright,
As doth the pure, unconscious rose,
Though by the fire-fly kiss'd all night?
Thus having—as, alas, deceiv'd
By my sin's blindness, I believ'd—
No cause for dread, and those dark eyes
Now fix'd upon me, eagerly
As though the' unlocking of the skies
Then waited but a sign from me—
How could I pause? how ev'n let fall
A word, a whisper that could stir
In her proud heart a doubt, that all
I brought from heaven belong'd to her
78

Slow from her side I rose, while she
Arose, too, mutely, tremblingly,
But not with fear—all hope, and pride,
She waited for the awful boon,
Like priestesses, at eventide,
Watching the rise of the full moon,
Whose light, when once its orb hath shone,
'Twill madden them to look upon!
Of all my glories, the bright crown,
Which, when I last from heaven came down,
Was left behind me, in yon star
That shines from out those clouds afar,—
Where, relic sad, 'tis treasur'd yet,
The downfall'n angel's coronet!—
Of all my glories, this alone
Was wanting:—but the' illumin'd brow,
The sun-bright locks, the eyes that now
Had love's spell added to their own,
And pour'd a light till then unknown;—
The' unfolded wings, that, in their play,
Shed sparkles bright as Alla's throne;
All I could bring of heaven's array,
Of that rich panoply of charms
79

A Cherub moves in, on the day
Of his best pomp, I now put on;
And, proud that in her eyes I shone
Thus glorious, glided to her arms;
Which still (though, at a sight so splendid,
Her dazzled brow had, instantly,
Sunk on her breast,) were wide extended
To clasp the form she durst not see!
Great Heav'n! how could thy vengeance light
So bitterly on one so bright?
How could the hand, that gave such charms,
Blast them again, in love's own arms?
Scarce had I touch'd her shrinking frame,
When—oh most horrible!—I felt
That every spark of that pure flame—
Pure, while among the stars I dwelt—
Was now, by my transgression, turn'd
Into gross, earthly fire, which burn'd,
Burn'd all it touch'd, as fast as eye
Could follow the fierce, ravening flashes;
Till there—oh God, I still ask why
80

Such doom was hers?—I saw her lie
Black'ning within my arms to ashes!
That brow, a glory but to see—
Those lips, whose touch was what the first
Fresh cup of immortality
Is to a new-made angel's thirst!
Those clasping arms, within whose round—
My heart's horizon—the whole bound
Of its hope, prospect, heaven was found!
Which, ev'n in this dread moment, fond
As when they first were round me cast,
Loos'd not in death the fatal bond,
But, burning, held me to the last!
All, all, that, but that morn, had seem'd
As if Love's self there breath'd and beam'd,
Now, parch'd and black, before me lay,
Withering in agony away;
And mine, oh misery! mine the flame,
From which this desolation came;—
I, the curst spirit, whose caress
Had blasted all that loveliness!
'Twas maddening!—but now hear even worse—
Had death, death only, been the curse
81

I brought upon her—had the doom
But ended here, when her young bloom
Lay in the dust—and did the spirit
No part of that fell curse inherit,
'Twere not so dreadful—but, come near—
Too shocking 'tis for earth to hear—
Just when her eyes, in fading, took
Their last, keen, agoniz'd farewell,
And look'd in mine with—oh, that look!
Great vengeful Power, whate'er the hell
Thou may'st to human souls assign,
The memory of that look is mine!—
In her last struggle, on my brow
Her ashy lips a kiss imprest,
So withering!—I feel it now—
'Twas fire—but fire, ev'n more unblest
Than was my own, and like that flame,
The angels shudder but to name,
Hell's everlasting element!
Deep, deep it pierc'd into my brain,
Madd'ning and torturing as it went;
And here—mark here, the brand, the stain
82

It left upon my front—burnt in
By that last kiss of love and sin—
A brand, which all the pomp and pride
Of a fallen Spirit cannot hide!
But is it thus, dread Providence—
Can it, indeed, be thus, that she,
Who, (but for one proud, fond offence,)
Had honour'd heaven itself, should be
Now doom'd—I cannot speak it—no,
Merciful Alla! 'tis not so—
Never could lips divine have said
The fiat of a fate so dread.
And yet, that look—so deeply fraught
With more than anguish, with despair—
That new, fierce fire, resembling nought
In heaven or earth—this scorch I bear!—
Oh—for the first time that these knees
Have bent before thee since my fall,
Great Power, if ever thy decrees
Thou could'st for prayer like mine recall,
Pardon that spirit, and on me,
On me, who taught her pride to err,
83

Shed out each drop of agony
Thy burning phial keeps for her!
See, too, where low beside me kneel
Two other outcasts, who, though gone
And lost themselves, yet dare to feel
And pray for that poor mortal one.
Alas, too well, too well they know
The pain, the penitence, the woe
That Passion brings upon the best,
The wisest, and the loveliest.—
Oh, who is to be sav'd, if such
Bright, erring souls are not forgiven;
So loth they wander, and so much
Their very wanderings lean tow'rds heaven!
Again, I cry, Just Power, transfer
That creature's sufferings all to me—
Mine, mine the guilt, the torment be,
To save one minute's pain to her,
Let mine last all eternity!”
He paus'd, and to the earth bent down
His throbbing head; while they, who felt
That agony as 'twere their own,
Those angel youths, beside him knelt,
84

And, in the night's still silence there,
While mournfully each wandering air
Play'd in those plumes, that never more
To their lost home in heav'n must soar,
Breath'd inwardly the voiceless prayer,
Unheard by all but Mercy's ear—
And which if Mercy did not hear,
Oh, God would not be what this bright
And glorious universe of His,
This world of beauty, goodness, light
And endless love proclaims He is!
 

“C'est un fait indubitable que la plupart des anciens philosophes, soit Chaldéens, soit Grecs, nous ont donné les astres comme animés, et ont soutenu que les astres, qui nous éclairent n'étoient que, ou les chars, ou même les navires des Intelligences qui les conduisoient. Pour les Chars, cela se lit partout; on n'a qu'ouvrir Pline, St. Clément,” &c. &c.— Mémoire Historique, sur le Sabiisme, par M. Fourmont.

A belief that the stars are either spirits or the vehicles of spirits, was common to all the religions and heresies of the East. Kircher has given the names and stations of the seven archangels, who were by the Cabala of the Jews distributed through the planets.

According to the cosmogony of the ancient Persians, there were four stars set as sentinels in the four quarters of the heavens, to watch over the other fixed stars, and superintend the planets in their course. The names of these four centinel stars are, according to the Boundesh, Taschter, for the east; Satevis, for the west; Venand, for the south; and Haftorang, for the north.

Chavah, or, as it is in Arabic, Havah (the name by which Adam called the woman after their transgression), means “Life.”

Called by the Mussulmans Al Araf—a sort of wall or partition which, according to the 7th chapter of the Koran, separates hell from paradise, and where they, who have not merits sufficient to gain them immediate admittance into heaven, are supposed to stand for a certain period, alternately tantalized and tormented by the sights that are on either side presented to them.

Manes, who borrowed in many instances from the Platonists, placed his purgatories, or places of purification, in the Sun and Moon. —Beausobre, liv. iii. chap. 8.

“Quelques gnomes désireux de devenir immortels, avoient voulu gagner les bonnes graces des nos filles, et leur avoient apporté des pierreries dont ils sont gardiens naturels: et ces auteurs ont crû, s'appuyans sur le livre d'Enoch mal-entendu, que c'étoient des pièges que les anges amoureux,” &c. &c. —Comte de Gabalis.

As the fiction of the loves of angels with women gave birth to the fanciful world of sylphs and gnomes, so we owe to it also the invention of those beautiful Genii and Peris, which embellish so much the mythology of the East; for in the fabulous histories of Caiöumarath, of Thamurath, &c., these spiritual creatures are always represented as the descendants of Seth, and called the Bani Algiann, or children of Giann.

I am aware that this happy saying of Lord Albemarle's loses much of its grace and playfulness, by being put into the mouth of any but a human lover.

According to Whitehurst's theory, the mention of rainbows by an antediluvian angel is an anachronism; as he says, “There was no rain before the flood, and consequently no rainbow, which accounts for the novelty of this sight after the Deluge.”

For the terms of this compact, of which the angels were supposed to be witnesses, see the chapter of the Koran, entitled Al Araf, and the article “Adam” in D'Herbelot.

In acknowledging the authority of the great Prophets who had preceded him, Mahomet represented his own mission as the final “Seal,” or consummation of them all.

The Zodiacal Light.

Pococke, however, gives it as the opinion of the Mahometan doctors, that all souls, not only of men and of animals, living either on land or in the sea, but of the angels also, must necessarily taste of death.

The Dove, or pigeon which attended Mahomet as his Familiar, and was frequently seen to whisper into his ear, was, if I recollect right, one of that select number of animals (including also the ant of Solomon, the dog of the Seven Sleepers, &c.) which were thought by the Prophet worthy of admission into Paradise.

“The Moslems have a tradition that Mahomet was saved (when he hid himself in a cave in Mount Shur) by his pursuers finding the mouth of the cave covered by a spider's web, and a nest built by two pigeons at the entrance, with two eggs unbroken in it, which made them think no one could have entered it. In consequence of this, they say, Mahomet enjoined his followers to look upon pigeons as sacred, and never to kill a spider.” —Modern Universal History, vol. i.

“Mohammed (says Sale), though a prophet, was not able to bear the sight of Gabriel, when he appeared in his proper form, much less would others be able to support it.”

Not long they knelt, when, from a wood
That crown'd that airy solitude,
They heard a low, uncertain sound,
As from a lute, that just had found
Some happy theme, and murmur'd round
The new-born fancy, with fond tone,
Scarce thinking aught so sweet its own!
Till soon a voice, that match'd as well
That gentle instrument, as suits
85

The sea-air to an ocean-shell,
(So kin its spirit to the lute's),
Tremblingly follow'd the soft strain,
Interpreting its joy, its pain,
And lending the light wings of words
To many a thought, that else had lain
Unfledg'd and mute among the chords.
All started at the sound—but chief
The third young Angel, in whose face,
Though faded like the others, grief
Had left a gentler, holier trace;
As if, ev'n yet, through pain and ill,
Hope had not fled him—as if still
Her precious pearl, in sorrow's cup,
Unmelted at the bottom lay,
To shine again, when, all drunk up,
The bitterness should pass away.
Chiefly did he, though in his eyes
There shone more pleasure than surprise,
Turn to the wood, from whence that sound
Of solitary sweetness broke;
Then, listening, look delighted round
To his bright peers, while thus it spoke:—
86

“Come, pray with me, my seraph love,
“My angel-lord, come pray with me;
“In vain to-night my lip hath strove
“To send one holy prayer above—
“The knee may bend, the lip may move,
“But pray I cannot, without thee!
“I've fed the altar in my bower
“With droppings from the incense tree;
“I've shelter'd it from wind and shower,
“But dim it burns the livelong hour,
“As if, like me, it had no power
“Of life or lustre, without thee!
“A boat at midnight sent alone
“To drift upon the moonless sea,
“A lute, whose leading chord is gone,
“A wounded bird, that hath but one
“Imperfect wing to soar upon,
“Are like what I am, without thee!
“Then ne'er, my spirit-love, divide,
“In life or death, thyself from me;
“But when again, in sunny pride,
“Thou walk'st through Eden, let me glide,
87

“A prostrate shadow, by thy side—
“Oh happier thus than without thee!”
The song had ceas'd, when, from the wood
Which, sweeping down that airy height,
Reach'd the lone spot whereon they stood—
There suddenly shone out a light
From a clear lamp, which, as it blaz'd
Across the brow of one, who rais'd
Its flame aloft (as if to throw
The light upon that group below),
Display'd two eyes, sparkling between
The dusky leaves, such as are seen
By fancy only, in those faces,
That haunt a poet's walk at even,
Looking from out their leafy places
Upon his dreams of love and heaven.
'Twas but a moment—the blush, brought
O'er all her features at the thought
Of being seen thus, late, alone,
By any but the eyes she sought,
Had scarcely for an instant shone
Through the dark leaves, when she was gone—
88

Gone, like a meteor that o'erhead
Suddenly shines, and, ere we've said,
“Behold, how beautiful!”—'tis fled.
Yet, ere she went, the words, “I come,
“I come, my Nama,” reach'd her ear,
In that kind voice, familiar, dear,
Which tells of confidence, of home,—
Of habit, that hath drawn hearts near,
Till they grow one,—of faith sincere,
And all that Love most loves to hear;
A music, breathing of the past,
The present and the time to be,
Where Hope and Memory, to the last,
Lengthen out life's true harmony!
Nor long did he, whom call so kind
Summon'd away, remain behind;
Nor did there need much time to tell
What they—alas, more fall'n than he
From happiness and heaven—knew well,
His gentler love's short history!
Thus did it run—not as he told
The tale himself, but as 'tis grav'd
89

Upon the tablets that, of old,
By Seth were from the deluge sav'd,
All written over with sublime
And saddening legends of the' unblest,
But glorious Spirits of that time,
And this young Angel's 'mong the rest.
 

Seth is a favourite personage among the Orientals, and acts a conspicuous part in many of their most extravagant romances. The Syrians pretended to have a Testament of this Patriarch in their possession, in which was explained the whole theology of angels, their different orders, &c. &c. The Curds, too (as Hyde mentions in his Appendix), have a book, which contains all the rites of their religion, and which they call Sohuph Sheit, or the Book of Seth.

In the same manner that Seth and Cham are supposed to have preserved these memorials of antediluvian knowledge, Xixuthrus is said in Chaldæan fable to have deposited in Siparis, the city of the Sun, those monuments of science which he had saved out of the waters of a deluge.—See Jablonski's learned remarks upon these columns or tablets of Seth, which he supposes to be the same with the pillars of Mercury, or the Egyptian Thoth. —Pantheon. Egypt. lib. v. cap. 5.

90

THIRD ANGEL'S STORY.

Among the Spirits, of pure flame,
That in the' eternal heav'ns abide—
Circles of light, that from the same
Unclouded centre sweeping wide,
Carry its beams on every side—
Like spheres of air that waft around
The undulations of rich sound—
Till the far-circling radiance be
Diffus'd into infinity!
First and immediate near the Throne
Of Alla , as if most his own,
The Seraphs stand —this burning sign
Trac'd on their banner, “Love Divine!”
91

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!
92

Oft, when from Alla's lifted brow
A lustre came, too bright to bear,
And all the seraph ranks would bow,
To shade their 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 every 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,
93

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 slop'd his fall along,
From good to ill, from loving much,
Too easy lapse, to loving wrong.—
Ev'n so that am'rous 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
94

And voice of her he lov'd steal o'er
The silver waters, that lay mute,
As loth, by ev'n 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 smil'd,
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,
95

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 'twas 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,
Tracking 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 rais'd, like one beatified,
Those eyes, whose light seem'd rather given
To be ador'd than to adore—
96

Such eyes, as may have look'd from heaven,
But ne'er were rais'd to it before!
Oh 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, entranc'd 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,
97

Breathing out music, that might steal
Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer
That seraphs might be proud to share!
Oh, he did feel it, all too well—
With warmth, that far too dearly cost—
Nor 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.
Sweet was the hour, though dearly won,
And pure, as aught of earth could be,
For then first did the glorious sun
Before religion's altar see
Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie
Self-pledg'd, in love to live and die.
Blest union! by that Angel wove,
And worthy from such hands to come;
Safe, sole asylum, in which Love,
When fall'n or exil'd from above,
In this dark world can find a home.
And, though the Spirit had transgress'd,
Had, from his station 'mong the blest
98

Won down by woman's smile, allow'd
Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er
The mirror of his heart, and cloud
God's image, there so bright before—
Yet never did that Power look down
On error with a brow so mild;
Never did Justice wear a frown,
Through which so gently Mercy smil'd.
For humble was their love—with awe
And trembling like some treasure kept,
That was not theirs by holy law—
Whose beauty with remorse they saw,
And o'er whose preciousness they wept.
Humility, that low, sweet root,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot,
Was in the hearts of both—but most
In Nama's heart, by whom alone
Those charms, for which a heaven was lost,
Seem'd all unvalued and unknown;
And when her Seraph's eyes she caught,
And hid hers glowing on his breast,
Ev'n bliss was humbled by the thought—
“What claim have I to be so blest?”
99

Still less could maid, so meek, have nurs'd
Desire of knowledge—that vain thirst,
With which the sex hath all been curs'd,
From luckless Eve to her, who near
The Tabernacle stole to hear
The secrets of the angels : no—
To love as her own Seraph lov'd,
With Faith, the same through bliss and woe—
Faith, that, were ev'n its light remov'd,
Could, like the dial, fix'd remain,
And wait till it shone out again;—
With Patience that, though often bow'd
By the rude storm, can rise anew;
And Hope that, ev'n from Evil's cloud,
Sees sunny Good half breaking through!
This deep, relying Love, worth more
In heaven than all a Cherub's lore—
This Faith, more sure than aught beside,
Was the sole joy, ambition, pride
Of her fond heart—the' unreasoning scope
Of all its views, above, below—
So true she felt it that to hope,
To trust, is happier than to know.
100

And thus in humbleness they trod,
Abash'd, but pure before their God;
Nor e'er did earth behold a sight
So meekly beautiful as they,
When, with the altar's holy light
Full on their brows, they knelt to pray,
Hand within hand, and side by side,
Two links of love, awhile untied
From the great chain above, but fast
Holding together to the last!—
Two fallen Splendors , from that tree,
Which buds with such eternally ,
101

Shaken to earth, yet keeping all
Their light and freshness in the fall.
Their only punishment, (as wrong,
However sweet, must bear its brand,)
Their only doom was this—that, long
As the green earth and ocean stand,
They both shall wander here—the same,
Throughout all time, in heart and frame—
Still looking to that goal sublime,
Whose light remote, but sure, they see;
Pilgrims of Love, whose way is Time,
Whose home is in Eternity!
Subject, the while, to all the strife,
True Love encounters in this life—
The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain;
The chill, that turns his warmest sighs
To earthly vapour, ere they rise;
The doubt he feeds on, and the pain
That in his very sweetness lies:—
102

Still worse, the' illusions that betray
His footsteps to their shining brink;
That tempt him, on his desert way
Through the bleak world, to bend and drink,
Where nothing meets his lips, alas,—
But he again must sighing pass
On to that far-off home of peace,
In which alone his thirst will cease.
All this they bear, but, not the less,
Have moments rich in happiness—
Blest meetings, after many a day
Of widowhood past far away,
When the lov'd face again is seen
Close, close, with not a tear between—
Confidings frank, without control,
Pour'd mutually from soul to soul;
As free from any fear or doubt
As is that light from chill or stain,
The sun into the stars sheds out,
To be by them shed back again!—
That happy minglement of hearts,
Where, chang'd as chymic compounds are,
103

Each with its own existence parts,
To find a new one, happier far!
Such are their joys—and, crowning all,
That blessed hope of the bright hour,
When, happy and no more to fall,
Their spirits shall, with freshen'd power,
Rise up rewarded for their trust
In Him, from whom all goodness springs,
And, shaking off earth's soiling dust
From their emancipated wings,
Wander for ever through those skies
Of radiance, where Love never dies!
In what lone region of the earth
These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell,
God and the Angels, who look forth
To watch their steps, alone can tell.
But should we, in our wanderings,
Meet a young pair, whose beauty wants
But the adornment of bright wings,
To look like heaven's inhabitants—
Who shine where'er they tread, and yet
Are humble in their earthly lot,
104

As is the way-side violet,
That shines unseen, and were it not
For its sweet breath would be forgot—
Whose hearts, in every thought, are one,
Whose voices utter the same wills—
Answering, as Echo doth some tone
Of fairy music 'mong the hills,
So like itself, we seek in vain
Which is the echo, which the strain—
Whose piety is love, whose love,
Though close as 'twere their souls' embrace,
Is not of earth, but from above—
Like two fair mirrors, face to face,
Whose light, from one to the' other thrown,
Is heaven's reflection, not their own—
Should we e'er meet with aught so pure,
So perfect here, we may be sure
'Tis Zaraph and his bride we see;
And call young lovers round, to view
The pilgrim pair, as they pursue
Their pathway tow'rds eternity.
 

The Mussulmans, says D'Herbelot, apply the general name, Mocarreboun, to all those Spirits “qui approchent le plus près le Trône.” Of this number are Mikail and Gebrail.

The Seraphim, or Spirits of Divine Love.

There appears to be, among writers on the East, as well as among the Orientals themselves, considerable indecision with regard to the respective claims of Seraphim and Cherubim to the highest rank in the celestial hierarchy. The derivation which Hyde assigns to the word Cherub seems to determine the precedence in favour of that order of spirits:— “Cherubim, i. e. Propinqui Angeli, qui sc. Deo proprius quam alii accedunt; nam Charab est i. q. Karab, appropinquare.” (P. 263.) Al Beidawi, too, one of the commentators of the Koran, on that passage, “the angels, who bear the throne, and those who stand about it,” (chap. xl.) says, “These are the Cherubim, the highest order of angels.” On the other hand, we have seen, in a preceding note, that the Syrians place the sphere in which the Seraphs dwell at the very summit of all the celestial systems; and even, among Mahometans, the word Azazil and Mocarreboun (which mean the spirits that stand nearest to the throne of Alla) are indiscriminately applied to both Seraphim and Cherubim.

“Les Egyptiens disent que la Musique est Sœur de la Religion.” —Voyages de Pythagore, tom. i. p. 422.

Sara.

An allusion to the Sephiroths or Splendors of the Jewish Cabbala, represented as a tree, of which God is the crown or summit.

The Sephiroths are the higher orders of emanative being in the strange and incomprehensible system of the Jewish Cabala. They are called by various names, Pity, Beauty, &c. &c.; and their influences are supposed to act through certain canals, which communicate with each other.

The reader may judge of the rationality of this Jewish system by the following explanation of part of the machinery: —“Les canaux qui sortent de la Miséricorde et de la Force, et qui vont aboutir à la Beauté, sont chargés d'un grand nombre d'Anges. Il y en a trente-cinq sur le canal de la Miséricorde, qui recompensent et qui couronnent la vertu des Saints,” &c. &c.—For a concise account of the Cabalistic Philosophy, see Enfield's very useful compendium of Brucker.

“On les représente quelquefois sous la figure d'un arbre ------ l'Ensoph qu'on met au-dessus de l'arbre Sephirotique ou des Splendeurs divins, est l'Infini.” —L'Histoire des Juifs, liv. ix. 11.

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