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ISRAFEL.*

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 enamoured moon
Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)
That Isra feli's fire
Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings-
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

* And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are sweetest voice of all God's creatures.-KURAN.

a lute, and who has the

But the skies that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a dutyWhere 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 thine; 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 Isra fel

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.

FOR ANNIE.

THANK Heaven ! the crisis

The danger is past, And the lingering illness

Is over at lastAnd the fever called “Living”

Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know

I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move

As I lie at full lengthBut no matter ! I feel

I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed, , That any beholder

Might fancy me deadMight start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing At heart :-ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing !

The sickness--the nausea

The pitiless pain--
Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain-
With the fever called “ Living"
That burned in

my

brain.

· And oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible

Torture of thirst
For the napthaline river

Of Passion accurst:
I have drank of a water

That quenches all thirst :

Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few

Feet under ground-
From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed ;
For man never slept

In a different bed-
And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit

Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never

Regretting its roses-
Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses :

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