Love raises man, not only above himself, but also above the bounds of his mortality and earthliness, up to divinity itself, and in the very act of raising him it destroys him. Mythologically, this self-presumption finds its striking expression in the building of the heaven-high tower of Babel, which brings confusion to mankind.[192] In Byron’s poem it is the sinful ambition of the race of Cain, for love of which it makes even the stars subservient and leads away the sons of God themselves. If, indeed, longing for the highest things—if I may speak so—is legitimate, then it lies in the circumstances that it leaves its human boundaries, that of sinfulness, and, therefore, destruction. The longing of the moth for the star is not absolutely pure and transparent, but glows in sultry mist, for man continues to be man. Through the excess of his longing he draws down the divine into the corruption of his passion;[193] therefore, he seems to raise himself to the Divine; but with that his humanity is destroyed. Thus the love of Anah and Aholibama for their angels becomes the ruin of gods and men. The invocation with which Cain’s daughters implore their angels is psychologically an exact parallel to Miss Miller’s poem. _Anah_:[194] Seraph! From thy sphere! Whatever star[195] contains thy glory. In the eternal depths of heaven Albeit thou watchest with the ‘seven,’ Though through space infinite and hoary Before thy bright wings worlds will be driven, Yet hear! Oh! think of her who holds thee dear! And though she nothing is to thee, Yet think that thou art all to her. · · · · · Eternity is in thy years, Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes; With me thou canst not sympathize, Except in love, and there thou must Acknowledge that more loving dust Ne’er wept beneath the skies. Thou walkest thy many worlds,[196] thou seest The face of him who made thee great, As he hath made of me the least Of those cast out from Eden’s gate; Yet, Seraph, dear! Oh hear! For thou hast loved me, and I would not die Until I know what I must die in knowing, That thou forgettest in thine eternity Her whose heart death could not keep from o’erflowing For thee, immortal essence as thou art,[197] Great is their love who love in sin and fear; And such, I feel, are waging in my heart A war unworthy: to an Adamite Forgive, my Seraph! that such thoughts appear. For sorrow is our element.... · · · · · The hour is near Which tells me we are not abandoned quite. Appear! Appear! Seraph! My own Azaziel! be but here, And leave the stars to their own light. _Aholibama_: I call thee, I await thee and I love thee. · · · · ·