Israfel
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"None sing so wildly wellAs the angel Israfel,And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),Ceasing their hymns, attend the spellOf his voice, all mute.
Tottering aboveIn her highest noon,The enamoured MoonBlushes with love,While, to listen, the red levin(With the rapid Pleiads, even,Which were seven),Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choirAnd the other listening things)That Israfeli's fireIs owing to that lyreBy which he sits and sings--The trembling living wireOf those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,Where deep thoughts are a duty--Where Love's a grow-up God--Where the Houri glances areImbued with all the beautyWhich we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong,Israfeli, who despisestAn unimpassioned song;To thee the laurels belong,Best bard, because the wisest!Merrily live and long!
The ecstasies aboveWith thy burning measures suit--Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,With the fervor of thy lute--Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but thisIs a world of sweets and sours;Our flowers are merely--flowers,And the shadow of thy perfect blissIs the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwellWhere IsrafelHath dwelt, and he where I,He might not sing so wildly wellA mortal melody,While a bolder note than this might swellFrom my lyre within the sky.
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