Puslapio vaizdai
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URIEL.

Ir fell in the ancient periods,

Which the brooding soul surveys,

Or ever the wild Time coined itself
Into calendar months and days.

This was the lapse of Uriel,

Which in Paradise befell.

Once, among the Pleiads walking,

SAID overheard the young gods talking;

And the treason, too long pent,

To his ears was evident.

The young deities discussed

Laws of form, and metre just,
Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams,
What subsisteth, and what seems.

One, with low tones that decide,
And doubt and reverend use defied,
With a look that solved the sphere,

And stirred the devils everywhere,

Gave his sentiment divine

Against the being of a line.
'Line in nature is not found;
Unit and universe are round;
In vain produced, all rays return;
Evil will bless, and ice will burn.'
As Uriel spoke with piercing eye,

A shudder ran around the sky;

The stern old war-gods shook their heads; The seraphs frowned from myrtle-beds;

Seemed to the holy festival

The rash word boded ill to all;
The balance-beam of Fate was bent;
The bounds of good and ill were rent;
Strong Hades could not keep his own,
But all slid to confusion.

A sad self-knowledge, withering, fell

On the beauty of Uriel;

In heaven once eminent, the god
Withdrew, that hour, into his cloud;
Whether doomed to long gyration
In the sea of generation,

Or by knowledge grown too bright
To hit the nerve of feebler sight.
Straightway, a forgetting wind

Stole over the celestial kind,
And their lips the secret kept,

If in ashes the fire-seed slept.

But now and then, truth-speaking things
Shamed the angels' veiling wings;

And, shrilling from the solar course,
Or from fruit of chemic force,
Procession of a soul in matter,
Or the speeding change of water,
Or out of the good of evil born,
Came Uriel's voice of cherub scorn,
And a blush tinged the upper sky,

And the gods shook, they knew not why.

THE WORLD-SOUL.

THANKS to the morning light,
Thanks to the foaming sea,
To the uplands of New Hampshire,
To the green-haired forest free;
Thanks to each man of courage,
To the maids of holy mind;

To the boy with his games undaunted,
Who never looks behind.

Cities of proud hotels,

Houses of rich and great,

Vice nestles in your chambers,

Beneath your roofs of slate.

It cannot conquer folly,

Time-and-space-conquering steam

And the light-outspeeding telegraph

Bears nothing on its beam.

The politics are base;

The letters do not cheer;

And 'tis far in the deeps of history, The voice that speaketh clear. Trade and the streets ensnare us,

Our bodies are weak and worn;

We plot and corrupt each other,
And we despoil the unborn.

Yet there in the parlor sits

Some figure of noble guise,

Our angel, in a stranger's form,
Or woman's pleading eyes;

Or only a flashing sunbeam

In at the window-pane ; Or Music pours on mortals

Its beautiful disdain.

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