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 Pauses in Heaven, With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven. And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israfeli’s fire Is due unto that lyre By which he sits and sings— That trembling living lyre With those unusual strings. But the Heavens that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty— Where Love is a grown God— Where Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in the star— The more lovely, the more far! Thou art not, therefore, 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 fervor 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 bliss Is the sunshine of ours. If I did dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing one half so well, One half so passionately, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky! ----- [2] And the angel Israfel, or Israfeli, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who is the most musical of all God’s creatures.—Koran. * * * * * BYE-GONE HOURS. WORDS BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. MUSIC BY MRS. PRICE BLACKWOOD. _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_. [Illustration: musical score] ’Tis sad, ’tis sad to think upon The joyous days of old— When ev’ry year that wearies on, Is number’d by some friendship gone! Some [Illustration: musical score] kindly heart grown cold! Could those days but come again With their thorns and flowers! I would give the hopes of years! For those by-gone hours! ’Tis sad—’tis sad to number o’er The faces glad and gay, Which we have loved! Some smile no more, Around us as they did of yore! And some have turn’d away! Could those days, &c. ’Tis sad—’tis sad to come again, With changed heart and brow, To our youth’s home, where none remain Of those who made it blessed then— Who leave it lonely now! Could those days, &c.