Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight―― Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) That bade me pause before that garden-gate To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. I paused――I looked―― And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs. All, all expired save thee――save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes―― Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them――they were the world to me. I saw but them――saw only them for hours―― Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a wo, yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an ambition! yet how deep―― How fathomless a capacity for love! But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight Into a western couch of thunder-cloud, And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. They would not go――they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me, they lead me through the years; They are my ministers――yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle―― My duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire―― And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope), And are far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still――two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! * * * * * ISRAFEL.¹ ¹ “And the angel ISRAFEL, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.” ――KORAN. 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 enamour’d moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven) Pauses in heaven.