"And what are ye, O beautiful?" "We are,"
Answer'd the choral cherubim, "His Deeds!"
Then his soul, sparkling sudden as a star,
Flash'd from its mortal weeds,
And, lightly passing, tier on tier, along
The gradual pinions, vanish'd like a smile!
Just then, swept by the solemn-visaged throng
From the Apostle's pile.
"Knew ye this beggar?" "Knew! a wretch, who died
Under the curse of our good Pope, now gone!"
"Loved ye that Pope?" "He was our Church's pride,
And Rome's most holy son!"
Then did I muse: such are men's judgments; blind
In scorn or love! In what unguess'd-of things,
Desires or Deeds—do rags and purple find
The fetters or the wings!
THE BEAUTIFUL DESCENDS NOT.
In Cyprus, looking on the lovely sky,
Lone by the marge of music-haunted streams,
A youthful poet pray'd: "Descend from high,
Thou of whose face each youthful poet dreams.
Once more, Urania, to the earth be given
The beauty that makes beautiful the heaven."
Swift to a silver cloudlet, floating o'er,
A rushing Presence rapt him as he pray'd;
What he beheld I know not, but once more
The midnight heard him sighing to the shade,
"Again, again unto the earth be given
The beauty that makes beautiful the heaven."
"In vain," a sweet voice answer'd from the star,
"Her grace on thee Urania did bestow:
Unworthy he the loftier realms afar,
Who woos the gods above to earth below;
Rapt to the Beautiful thy soul must be,
And not the Beautiful debased to thee!"