The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

“'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.

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,

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,

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

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

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;

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,

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;

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!—

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.

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

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!

“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,

“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

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

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,

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.

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.

'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.

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.