And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israeli's fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings-- The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings. But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty-- Where Love's a grown-up God-- Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. Therefore, thou art not 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 fervour of thy lute-- Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thin-e; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely--flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. LENORE Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy De Vere, halt thou no tear?--weep now or never more! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!-- An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-- A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, "And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died! "How shall the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung "By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue "That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"