And the cherubs waved the fiery sword
At Eden’s gate ’gainst its banished lord—
Since the brow of the guilty Earth was bent
’Neath the sentence of sin’s dread punishment,
A spell of woe on thy heart has lain,
Sorrow has saddened thy dulcet strain;
And the grief of the exile that pines alone
Is heard in the breathing of every tone.
Still pour thy song; and still mount higher
With the day-god. Bird of the plumy lyre!