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?"
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
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.
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,
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 rhat 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 doubts he feeds on, and the pain
That in his very sweetness lies.
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
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
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 the emaciated 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,
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 does, 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' em-
brace,
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,
There is but one such pair below,
And, as we bless them on their way
Through the world's wilderness, may say,
"There ZARAPH and his NAMA go.”
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