Yon calm and solemn spirit-realm to gain;
Like the AEONIAN harp's sweet melodies,
My murmuring song breathes forth its changeful strain.
A trembling seizes me, tears fill mine eyes,
And softer grows my rugged heart amain.
All I possess far distant seems to be,
The vanish'd only seems reality.
II. PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN.
THE ARCHANGELS' SONG.
RAPHAEL.
THE sun still chaunts, as in old time,
With brother-spheres in choral song,
And with his thunder-march sublime
Moves his predestined course along.
Strength find the angels in his sight,
Though he by none may fathomed be;
Still glorious is each work of might