Entranced, I lay with ’wildered half-closed eyes, Till from another gate, another host Marched forth, the armies of the living God. Beneath their thunder-tread all Heaven shook, And at their head the tall Archangel strode. How grandly terrible his mien! His face Lit with a soul that only kneels to Three; The lofty brows drawn slightly to a frown The eyes that beam with vast intelligence, The depths of distance piercing with their glance; The chiselled lips, compressed with stern resolve, Yet marked with lines and curves of tender love, That ever with a sigh Wrath’s vial broke Upon the doomed. His splendid form so tall, That as he paused a moment in the gate His dazzling crest just grazed the silver bell. He wore no arms nor armor, save a sword Without a sheath, that blazed as broad and bright As sunset bars that shear the zenith’s blue-- A sword, that falling flatly on the host Of Xerxes, would have crushed them as we crush A swarm of ants. An edge-stroke on the Earth Would gash the rocky shell to caverned fire. Unfolding wings would shake a continent, He floated down the depths. Behind him came A million foll’wers, counterparts in all, Save presence of command. I wondered not That one should breathe upon the Syrian might, And still the sleeping hearts, four thousand score. And from Creation’s little corner came The Guardian Angels, bearing in their arms Their charges during life. As laden bees, They flew to Heaven’s hive; and some passed by So closely I their burdens could discern; And though they came from far-off, unseen Earth, The stiffened forms were borne all tenderly. Some bore the dimpled babe, with soft-closed eyes, As if upon its mother’s breast; its hands, Unhardened yet by toil of life, its face Unfurrowed yet by care’s sharp plough; and some The age-bent form, with ghostly silvered hair, And features gaunt in death, that would have seemed A hideous sight, in any light but Heaven’s; Some bore the rich, who made of Mammon friends, Who wore the purple with a stainless soul; Some bore the poor, who mastered poverty, And broke the ashen crust beneath God’s smile; Their work-worn hands now folded peacefully, And passing towards the harp, the weary feet, So often blistered in life’s bitter dust, To tread with kings the golden streets of Heaven; And some the maiden form bore lovingly, So fair, they seemed twin sisters. And I saw, That, passing through the amber air, they caught Its glowing dust upon them, and were changed, The livid to the radiant. Then as they Approached the City, all the walls were thronged, And all the harps were throbbing to be swept. And mid the throng there moved a dazzling Form,