From sky, or earth, or hell, hath power Since that unutterable hour. He rose to speak, but paused, and listening stood, Not daunted, but in sad and curious mood, With knitted brow, and searching eye of fire. A deathlike silence sank on all around, And through the boundless space was heard no sound, Save the soft tones of that mysterious lyre. Broken, faint, and low, At first the numbers flow. Louder, deeper, quicker, still Into one fierce peal they swell, And the echoing palace fill With a strange funereal yell. A voice comes forth. But what, or where? On the earth, or in the air? Like the midnight winds that blow Round a lone cottage in the snow, With howling swell and sighing fall, It wails along the trophied hall. In such a wild and dreary moan The watches of the Seraphim Poured out all night their plaintive hymn Before the eternal throne. Then, when from many a heavenly eye Drops as of earthly pity fell For her who had aspire too high, For him who loved too well. When, stunned by grief, the gentle pair From the nuptial garden fair, Linked in a sorrowful caress, Strayed through the untrodden wilderness; And close behind their footsteps came The desolating sword of flame, And drooped the cedared alley's pride, And fountains shrank, and roses died. "Rejoice, O Son of God, rejoice," Sang that melancholy voice, "Rejoice, the maid is fair to see; The bower is decked for her and thee; The ivory lamps around it throw A soft and pure and mellow glow. Where'er the chastened lustre falls On roof or cornice, floor or walls, Woven of pink and rose appear Such words as love delights to hear. The breath of myrrh, the lute's soft sound, Float through the moonlight galleries round. O'er beds of violet and through groves of spice, Lead thy proud bride into the nuptial bower; For thou hast bought her with a fearful price, And she hath dowered thee with a fearful dower. The price is life. The dower is death. Accursed loss! Accursed gain! For her thou givest the blessedness of Seth, And to thine arms she brings the curse of Cain. Round the dark curtains of the fiery throne Pauses awhile the voice of sacred song: From all the angelic ranks goes forth a groan, 'How long, O Lord, how long?' The still small voice makes answer, 'Wait and see, Oh sons of glory, what the end shall be.'