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THE ANGEL OF THE WORLD.

BY

REV. GEORGE UROLY.

THERE'S glory on thy mountains, proud Bengal,
When on their temples bursts the morning sun!
There's glory on thy marble-towered wall,
Proud Ispahan, beneath his burning noon!
There's glory-when his golden course is done,
Proud Istamboul, upon thy waters blue!
But fall'n Damascus, thine was beauty's throne,
In morn, and noon, and evening's purple dew,
Of all from Ocean's marge to mighty Himmalu.

East of the city stands a lofty mount,.

Its brow with lightning delved and rent in sunder; And through the fragments rolls a little fount, Whose channel bears the blast of fire and thunder! And there has many a pilgrim come to wonder; For there are flowers unnumber'd blossoming, With but the bare and calcined marble under; Yet in all Asia no such colours spring, No perfumes rich as in that mountain's rocky ring. And some who pray'd the night out on the hill, Have said they heard,-unless it was their dream, Or the mere murmur of the babbling rill,Just as the morn-star shot its first slant beam, A sound of music, such as they might deem The song of spirits-that would sometimes sail Close to their ear, a deep, delicious stream, Then sweep away, and die with a low wail; Then come again, and thus, till LUCIFER was pale. And some, but bolder still, had dared to turn That soil of mystery for hidden gold; But saw strange, stifling blazes round them burn, And died-by few that venturous tale was told. And wealth was found; yet, as the pilgrims hold, Though it was glorious on the mountain's brow, Brought to the plain it crumbled into mould, The diamonds melted in the hand like snow; So none molest that spot for gems or ingots now,

But one, and ever after, round the hill

He stray'd:--they said a meteor scorch'd his sight;
Blind, mad, a warning of Heaven's fearful will.
Twas on the sacred evening of "The Flight,"
His spade turn'd up a shaft of marble white,
Fragrant of some kiosk, the chapiter
A crystal circle, but at morn's first light
Rich forms began within it to appear,
Sceptred and wing'd, and then, it sank in water clear.

Yet once upon that guarded mount, no foot
But of the Moslem true might press a flower,
And of them none, but with some solemn suit
Beyord man's help, might venture near the bower:
Po, in its shade, in beauty and in power,
For judgment sat the ANGEL OF THE WORLD:
Sent by the prophet, till the destined hour
That saw in dust Arabia's idols hurl'd,

Them to the skies again his ving should be unfurl'd.

It came at last. It came with trumpet's sounding,
It came with thunders of the atabal,
And warrior shouts, and Arab charger's bounding,
The SACRED STANDARD Crown'd Medina's wall!
From palace-roof, and minaret's golden ball,
Ten thousand emerald banners floated free,
Beneath, like sunbeams, through the gateway tall,
The Emirs led their steel-mail'd chivalry,

And the whole city rang with sports and soldier glee.
This was the eve of eves, the end of war,
Beginning of dominion, first of time!
When, swifter than the shooting of a star,
Mohammed saw the Vision's pomps sublime!
Swept o'er the rainbow'd sea-the fiery clime,
Heard from the throne its will in thunders roll'd;
Then glancing on our world of woe and crime,
Saw from Arabia's sands his banner's fold

Wave o'er the brighten'd globe its sacred conquering gold.

The sun was slowly sinking to the West, Pavilion'd with a thousand glorious dyes; The turtle-doves were winging to the nest, Along the mountain's soft declivities; The fresher breath of flowers began to rise. Like incense, to that sweet departing sun; Faint as the hum of bees the city's cries: A moment, and the lingering disk was gone; Then were the Angels' task on earth's dim orbit done

Oft had he gazed upon that lovely vale, But never gazed with gladness such as now; When on Damascus' roofs and turrets pale He saw the solemn sunlight's fainter glow, With joy he heard the Imaun's voices flow Like breath of silver trumpets on the air; The vintagers' sweet song, the camels' low, As home they stalked from pasture, pair by pair, Flinging their shadows tall in the steep sunset glare.

Then at his sceptre's wave a rush of plumes Shook the thick dew-drops from the roses' dyes; And, as embodying of their waked perfumes, A crowd of lovely forms, with lightning eyes, And flower-crown'd hair, and cheeks of Paradise, Circled the bower of beauty on the wing; And all the grove was rich with symphonies Of seeming flute, and horn, and golden string, That slowly rose, and o'er the Mount hung hovering

The Angel's flashing eyes were on the vault, That now with lamps of diamond all was hung, His mighty wings like tissues heavenly-wrought Upon the bosom of the air were hung. The solemn hymn's last harmonies were sung, The sun was couching on the distant zone. "Farewell" was breathing on the Angel's tongue,He glanced below. There stood a suppliant one! The impatient Angel sank, in wrath, upon his throne.

Yet all was quickly soothed,-"this labour past,
His coronet of tenfold light was won."
His glance again upon the form was cast,
That now seem'd dying on the dazzling stone;
He bade it rise and speak. The solemn tone
Of Earth's high Sovereign mingled joy with fear,
As summer vales of rose by lightning shown;
As the night-fountain in the desert drear;

His voice seem'd sudden life to that fall'n suppliant's ear

The form arose-the face was in a veil,

The voice was low, and often check'd with sighs;
The tale it utter'd was a simple tale;
"A vow to close a dying parent's eyes,
And brought its weary steps from Tripolis;

The Arab in the Syrian mountains lay,

The caravan was made the robber's prize,
The pilgrim's little wealth was swept away,

Man's help was vain." Here sank the voice in soft decay.

"And this is Earth!" the Angel frowning said;
And from the ground he took a matchless gem,
And flung it to the mourner, then outspread
His pinions, like the lightning's rushing beam.
The pilgrims started at the diamond's gleam,
Glanced up in prayer, then, bending near the throne,
Shed the quick tears that from the bosom stream,
And tried to speak, but tears were there alone;
The pitying Angel said, " Be happy and begone."

The weeper raised the veil; a ruby lip

First dawn'd: then glow'd the young cheek's deeper hue,
Yet delicate as roses when they dip

Their odorous blossoms in the morning dew.
Then beam'd the eyes, twin stars of living blue;
Half shaded by the curls of glossy hair,

That turn'd to golden as the light wind threw
Their clusters in the Western golden glare,

Yet was her blue eye dim, for tears were standing there.

He look'd upon her, and her hurried gaze
Sought from his glance sweet refuge on the ground;
But o'er her cheek of beauty rush'd a blaze;
And, as the soul had felt some sudden wound,
Her bosom heaved above its silken bound.
He looked again; the cheek was deadly pale;
The bosom sank with one long sigh profound;
Yet still one lily hand upheld her veil,

And still one press'd her heart-that sigh told all its tale.

She stoop'd, and from the thicket pluck'd a flower,
And fondly kiss'd, and then with feeble hand
She laid it on the footstool of the bower;
Such was the ancient custom of the land.

Her sighs were richer than the rose they fann'd;
The breezes swept it to the Angel's feet;

Yet even that sweet slight boon, 'twas Heaven's command,
He must not touch, from her though doubly sweet,
No earthly gift must stain that hallow'd judgment-seat.

Still by the flower upon the splendid spot,
The Pilgrim turn'd away, as smote with shame;
Her eye a glance of self-upbraiding shot;
"Twas in his soul, a shaft of living flame.
Then bow'd the humble one, and bless'd his name,
Cross'd her white arms, and slowly bade farewell.
A sudden faintness o'er the Angel came;
The voice rose sweet and solemn as a spell,

She bow'd her face to earth, and o'er it dropped her veï
Beauty, what art thou, that thy slightest gaze
Can make the spirit from its centre roll;
Its whole long course, a sad and shadowy maze?
Thou midnight or thou noontide of the soul;
One glorious vision lighting up the whole
Of the wide world; or one deep, wild desire,
By day and night consuming, sad and sole;
Till Hope, Pride, Genius, nay, till Love's own fire,
Desert the weary heart, a cold and mouldering pyre.

Enchanted sleep, yet full of deadly dreams;
Companionship divine, stern solitude;

Thou serpent, colour'd with the brightest gleams
That e'er hid poison, making hearts thy food;

Woe to the heart that lets thee once intrude,
Victim of visions that life's purpose steal,
Till the whole struggling nature lies subdued,
Bleeding with wounds the grave alone must heal.
Proud Angel, was it thine that mortal woe to feel?
Still knelt the pilgrim, cover'd with her veil,
But all her beauty living on his eye;
Still hyacinth the clustering ringlets fell
Wreathing her forehead's polish'd ivory;
Her cheek unseen still wore the rose-bud's dye;
She sigh'd; he heard the sigh beside him swell,
He glanced around-no spirit hover'd nigh-
Touch'd the fall'n flower, and blushing, sigh'd "farewel
What sound has stunn'd his ear? A sudden thunder-peal

He look'd on heaven, 'twas calm, but in the vale
A creeping mist bad girt the mountain round,
Making the golden minarets glimmer pale;
It scaled the mount,-the feeble day was drown'd.
The sky was with its livid hue embrown'd,
But soon the vapours grew a circling sea,
Reflecting lovely from its blue profound
Mountain, and crimson cloud, and blossom'd tree;
Another heaven and earth in bright tranquillity.

And on its bosom swam a small chaloupe,
That like a wild swan sported on the tide.
The silken sail that canopied its poop
Show'd one that look'd an Houri in her pride;
Anon came spurring up the mountain's side
A warrior Moslem all in glittering mail,
That to his country's doubtful battle hied.
He saw the form, he heard the tempter's tale,
And answered with his own: for beauty will prevail

But now in storm uprose the vast mirage;
Where sits she now who tempted him to roam?
How shall the skiff with that wild sea engage!
In vain the quivering helm is turn'd to home
Dark'ning above the piles of tumbling foam,
Rushes a shape of woe, and through the roar
Peals in the warrior's ear a voice of doom.
Down plunges the chaloupe.-The storm is o'er
Heavy and slow the corpse rolls onward to the shore.

The Angel's heart was smote-but that touch'd flowe
Now opening, breathed such fragrance subtly sweet,
He felt it strangely chain him to the bower.
He dared not then that pilgrim's eye to meet,
But gazed upon the small unsandal'd feet,
Shining like silver on the floor of rose;

At length he raised his glance;-the veil's light net
Had floated backward from her pencil'd brows,
Her eye was fix'd on Heaven, in sad, sublime repose

A simple Syrian lyre was on her breast,
And on her crimson lip was murmuring
A village strain, that in the day's sweet rest
Is heard in Araby round many a spring,
When down the twilight vales the maidens bring
The flocks to some old patriarchal well;
Or where beneath the palms some desert-king
Lies, with his tribe around him as they fell!

The thunder burst again; a long, deep, crashing peal.

The Angel heard it not; as round the range Of the blue hill-tops roar'd the volley on, Uttering its voice with wild, ærial change; Now sinking in a deep and distant moan, Like the last echo of a host o'erthrown; Then rushing with new vengeance down again, Shooting the fiery flash and thunder-stone, Till flamed, like funeral pyres, the mountain chain The Angel heard it not; its wisdom all was vain.

He heard not even the strain, though it had changed From the calm sweetness of the holy hymn. His thoughts from depth to depth unconscious ranged Yet all within was dizzy, strange, and dim; A mist seem'd spreading between heaven and him; He sat absorb'd in dreams;-a searching tone Came on his ear, oh how her dark eyes swim Who breathed that echo of a heart undone, The song of early joys, delicious, dear, and gone!

Again it changed.-But, now 'twas wild and grand,
The praise of hearts that scorn the world's control,
Disdaining all but Love's delicious band,
The chain of gold and flowers, the tie of soul
Again strange paleness o'er her beauty stole,
She glanced above, then stoop'd her glowing eye,
Blue as the star that glitter'd by the pole;
One 'ear-drop gleam'd, she dash'd it quickly by,

And dropp'd the lyre, and turn'd-as if she turn'd to die.

The night-breeze from the mountains had begun;
And as it wing'd among the clouds of even,
Where, like a routed king, the Sultan Sun
Still struggled on the fiery verge of heaven;
Their volumes in ten thousand shapes were driven;
Spreading away in boundless palace halls,

Whose lights from gold and emerald lamps were given;
Or airy citadels and battled walls;

Or sunk in valleys sweet, with silver waterfalls.

But, for those sights of heaven the Angel's heart
Was all unsettled: and a bitter sigh
Burst from his burning lip, and with a start
He cast upon the earth his conscious eye.
The whole horizon from that summit high
Spread out in vision, from the pallid line
Where old Palmyra's pomps in ruin lie,
Gilding the Arab sands, to where supine

The western lustre tinged thy spires, lost Palestine !

Yet, loveliest of the vision was the vale
That sloped beneath his own imperial bowers;
Sheeted with colours like an Indian mail,
A tapestry sweet of all sun-painted flowers,
Balsam, and clove, and jasmines scented showers,
And the red glory of the Persian rose,
Spreading in league on league around the towers,
Where, loved of Heaven, and hated of its foes,
The Queen of Cities shines, in calm and proud repose.

And still he gazed-and saw not that the eve
Was fading into night. A sudden thought
Struck to his dreaming heart, that made it heave;
Was he not there in Paradise?-that spot,
Was it not lovely as the lofty vault
That rose above him? In his native skies,
Could he be happy till his soul forgot,
Oh! how forget, the being whom his eyes

Loved as their light of light? He heard a tempest rise—

Was it a dream? the vale at once was bare,
And o'er it hung a broad and sulphurous cloud:
The soil grew red and rifted with its glare;
Down to their roots the mountain cedars bow'd;
Along the ground a rapid vapour flow'd,

Yellow and pale, thick seam'd with streaks of flame.
Before it sprang the vulture from the shroud;
The lion bounded from it scared and tame;

Behind it, dark'ning heaven, the mighty wirlwind came.

Like a long tulip bed, across the plain
A caravan approach'd the evening well,

A long, deep mass of turban, plume, and vane;
And lovely came its distant, solemn swell
Of sng, and pilgrim-horn, and camel-bell.

The sandy ocean rose before their eye,
In thunder on their bending host it fell
Ten thousand lips sent up one fearful cry;

The sound was still'd at once, beneath its wave they lie.

But, two escaped, that up the mountain sprung,
And those the dead men's treasure downwards drew;
One, with slow steps; but beautiful and young
Was she, who round his neck her white arms threw
Away the tomb of sand like vapour flew.
These, naked lay the costly caravan,

A league of piles of silk and gems that threw
A rainbow light, and mid them stiff and wan,

Stretch'd by his camel's flank, their transient master, man.

The statelier wand'rer from the height was won,
And cap and sash soon gleam'd with plunder'd gold.
But, now the Desert rose, in pillars dun,
Glowing with fire like iron in the mould,

That wings with fiery speed, recoil'd, sprang, roll'd; Before them waned the moon's ascending phase. The clouds above them shrank the redd'ning foja: On rush'd the giant columns blaze en blaze, The sacrilegious died, wrapp'd in the burning haze. The Angel sat enthroned within a dome Of alabaster raised on pillars slight, Curtain'd with tissues of no earthly loom; For spirits wove the web of blossoms bright, Woof of all flowers that drink the morning light, And with their beauty figured all the stone

In characters of mystery and might,

A more than mortal guard around the throne,

That in their tender shade one glorious diamond shone
And every bud round pedestal and plinth,
As fell the evening, turn'd a living gem.
Lighted its purple lamp the hyacinth,
The dahlia pour'd its thousand-colour'd gleam,
A ruby torch the wond'ring eye might deem
Hung on the brow of some night-watching tower,
Where upwards climb'd the broad magnolia's stem.
An urn of lovely lustre every flower,

Burning before the king of that illumined bower.

And nestling in that arbour's leafy twine,
From cedar's top to violet's lowly bell,
Were birds, now hush'd, of plumage all divine,
That, as the quivering radiance on them fell,
Shot back such hues as stain the orient shell,
Touching the deep, green shades with light from eyes
Jacinth, and jet, and blazing carbuncle,
And gold-dropt coronets, and wings of dyes
Bathed in the living streams of their own Paradise.

The Angel knew the warning of that storm;
But saw the shudd'ring Minstrel's step draw near,
And felt the whole deep witchery of her form;
Her sigh was music's echo to his ear;

He loved-and what has love to do with fear?
Now night had droop'd on earth her raven wing,
But in the arbour all was splendour clear;

And, like twin spirits in its charmed ring,

Shone that sweet child of earth and that star-diadem'd king

For, whether 'twas the light's unusual glow,
Or that some dazzling change had on her come;
Her look, though lovely still, was loftier now,
Her tender cheek was flush'd with brighter bloom;
Yet in her azure eyebeam gather'd gloom,
Like evening's clouds across its own blue star,
Then would a sudden flash its depths illume;
And wore she but the wing and gemm'd tiar,
She seem'd instinct with might to make the clouds her car
She slowly raised her arm, that, bright as snow,
Gleam'd like a rising meteor through the air,
Shedding white lustre on her turban'd brow;
And gazed on heaven, as wrapt in solemn prayer;
She still look'd woman, yet more proudly fair;
And as she stood and pointed to the sky,
With that fix'd look of loveliness and care,
The Angel thought, and check'd it with a sigh,
He saw some Spirit fallen from immortality.

The silent prayer was done; and now she moved
Faint to his footstool, and, upon her knee,
Besought her lord, if in his heaven they loved,
That, as she never more his face must sec,
She there might pledge her heart's fidelity.
Then turn'd, and pluck'd a cluster from the vine,
And o'er a chalice waved it, with a sigh,
Then stoop'd the crystal cup before the shrine.

In wrath the Angel rose-the guilty draught was wine!

She stood; she shrank: she totter'd. Down he sprang Clasp'd with one hand her waist, with one upheld The vase-his ears with giddy murmurs rang; His eye upon her dying cheek was spell'd; Up to the brim the draught of evil swell'd Like liquid rose, its odour touch'd his brain; He knew his ruin, but his soul was quell'd; He shudder'd-gazed upon her cheek again, Press'd her pale lip, and to the last that cup did drain

Th' enchantress smiled, as still in some sweet dream,
Then waken'd in a long, delicious sigh,
And on the bending spirit fix'd the beam

Of her deep, dewy, melancholy eye.

The undone Angel gave no more reply
Than hiding his pale forehead in the hair
That floated on her neck of ivory,

And breathless pressing, with her ringlets fair, From his bright eyes the tears of passion and despair.

The heaven was one blue cope, inlaid with gems
Thick as the concave of a diamond mine,
But from the north now fly pale, phosphor beams,
That o'er the mount their quivering het entwine;
The smallest stars through that sweet lustre shine
Then, like a routed host, its streamers fly:
Then, from the moony horizontal line
A surge of sudden glory floods the sky,
Ocean of purple waves, and multe azuli

But wilder wonder smote their shrinking eyes:
A vapour plunged upon the vale from heaven,
Then, darkly gathering, tower'd of mountain size;
From its high crater column'd smokes were driven;
It heaved within, as if pent flames had striven
With mighty winds to burst their prison hold,
Till all the cloud-volcano's bulk was riven
With angry light, that seem'd in cataracts roll'd,
Silver, and sanguine steel, and streams of molten gold.
Then echoed on the winds a hollow roar,
An earthquake groan, that told convulsion near:
Out rush'd the burthen of its burning core,
Myriads of fiery globes, as day-light clear.
The sky was fill'd with flashing sphere on sphere,
Shooting straight upward to the zenith's crown.
The stars were blasted in that splendour drear,
The land beneath in wild distinctness shone,
From Syria's yellow sands to Libanus' summit-stone
The storm is on the embattled clouds receding,
The purple streamers wander pale and thin,
But o'er the pole a fiercer flame is spreading,
Wheel within wheel of fire, and far within
Revolves a stooping splendour crystalline.
A throne;-but who the sitter on that throne!
The Angel knew the punisher of sin.
Check'd on his lip the self-upbraiding groan,
And clasp'd his dying love, and joy'd to be undone.
And once, 'twas but a moment, on her cheek
He gave a glance, then sank his hurried eye,
And press'd it closer on her dazzling neck.
Yet, even in that swift gaze, he could espy

A look that made his heart's blood backwards fly.
Was it a dream? there echoed in his ear
A stinging tone-a laugh of mockery!
It was a dream-it must be. Oh! that fear,

When the heart longs to know, what it is death to hear.

He glanced again-her eye was upwards still,
Fix'd on the stooping of that burning car;
But through his bosom shot an arrowy thrill,
To see its solemn, stern, unearthly glare;
She stood a statue of sublime despair,
But on her lip sat scorn.-His spirit froze,-
His footstep reel'd,-his warm lip gasp'd for air;
She felt his throb,-and o'er him stoop'd with brows
As evening sweet, and kiss'd him with a lip of rose.

Again she was all beauty, and they stood
Still fonder clasp'd, and gazing with the eye
Of famine, gazing on the poison'd food
That it must feed on, or abstaining die.
There was between them now nor tear nor sigh;
Theirs was the deep communion of the soul;
Passions absorbing, bitter luxury;

What was to them or heaven or earth, the whole
Was in that fatal spot, where they stood sad, and sole.

The minstrel first shook off the silent trance;
And in a voice sweet as the murmuring

Of summer streams beneath the moonlight's glance,
Besought the desperate one to spread the wing

Beyond the power of his vindictive king.
Slave to her slightest word, he raised his plume.
For life or death, he reck'd not which, to spring;
Nay, to confront the thunder and the gloom.
She wildly kiss'd his hand, and sank, as in a omb.
The Angel sooth'd her, "No! let Justice vreak
Its wrath upon them both, or him alone."
A flush of love's pure crimson lit her cheek;
She whisper'd, and his stoop'd ear drank the tone
With mad delight; "Oh, there is one way, one,
To save us both. Are there not mighty words,
Graved on the magnet-throne where Solomon
Sits ever guarded by the genii swords,

To give thy servant wings, like her resplendent Lords?
This was the sin of sins! the first, last crime,
In earth and heaven, unnamed, unnameable;
This from his throne of light, before all time,
Hau smitten Eolas, brightest, firsɩ the fell.
He started back." What urg'd aim to rebul?
What led that soft seducer to his bower?

Could she have laid upon his soul that spell,
Young, lovely, fond; yet but an earthly flower?"
But for that fatal cup, he had been free that hour.

But still its draught was fever in his blood.
He caught the upward, humble, weeping gleam
Of woman's eye, by passion all subdued;
He sigh'd, and at his sigh he saw it beam:
Oh! the sweet frenzy of a lover's dream!
A moment's lingering, and they both must die.
The lightning round them shot a broader stream;
He felt her clasp his feet in agony;

He spoke the "Words of might",-the thunder gave reply
Away! away! the sky is one black cloud,
Shooting its lightnings down in spire on spire.
Around the mount its canopy is bow'd,

A fiery vault upraised on pillar'd fire;
The stars like lamps along its roof expire:
But through its centre bursts an orb of rays
The Angel knew the Avenger in his ire!
The hill-top smoked beneath the stooping braze,
The culprits dared not there their guilty glances raise.
And words were utter'd from that whirling sphere,
That mortal sense might never hear and live.
They pierced like arrows through the Angel's ear;
He bow'd his head; 'twas vain to fly or strive.
Down comes the final wrath: the thunders give
The doubled peal,--the rains in cataracts sweep,
Broad bars of fire the sheeted deluge rive;
The mountain summits to the valley leap,
Pavilion, garden, grove, smoke up one ruin'd heap.

The storm stands still! a moment's pause of terror'
All dungeon-dark-Again the lightnings yawn,
Shewing the earth as in a quivering mirror.
The prostrate Angel felt but that the one,
Whose love had lost him Paradise, was gone:
He dared not see her corpse!-he closed his eyes,
A voice burst o'er him, solemn as the tone
Of the last trump,-he glanced upon the skies,
He saw, what shook his soul with terror, shame, su prise
The Minstrel stood before him; two broad plumes
Spread from her shoulders on the burthen'd air,
Her face was glorious still, but love's young blooms
Had vanish'd for the hue of bold despair;

A fiery circle crown'd her sable hair;
And, as she look'd upon her prostrate prize,
Her eyeballs shot around a meteor glare,
Her form tower'd up at once to giant size,

'Twas EBLIS! king of Hell's relentless sovereignties.

The tempter spoke-" Spirit, thou mightst have stood, But thou hast fall'n a weak and willing slave. Now were thy feeble heart our serpents' food, Thy bed our burning ocean's sleepless wave, But haughty Heaven controls the power it gave. Yet art thou doom'd to wander from thy sphere, Till the last trumpet reaches to the grave; Till the Sun rolls the grand concluding year; Till Earth is Paradise; then shall thy crime be clear"

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