ISRAFEL

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell “Whose heart-strings are a lute;” None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy Stars ( so legends tell ) Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute. Tottering above

In her highest noon, The enamoured moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin

( With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven,) Pauses in Heaven. And they say ( the starry choir

And the other listening things ) That Israfeli's fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings —

The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings. But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty —

Where Love's a grown up God — Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long! The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit —

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervour of thy lute — Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely — flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.