Is this morality ?-Oh, no!
E'en I a wiser path could show.
The flower within

this vase confined, The

pure, the unfading flower of mind, Must not throw all its sweets away Upon a mortal mould of clay; No, no ! its richest breath should rise In virtue's incense to the skies!

While I, in feeling's sweet romance, Look on each day-beam as a glance From the great eye of Him above, Wakening his world with looks of love!

THE NATAL GENIUS.

A DREAM.

But thus it is, all sects, we see,
Have watch-words of morality :
Some cry out Venus, others Jove;
Here't is religion, there 't is love!
But while they thus so widely wander,
While mystics dream and doctors ponder,
And some, in dialectics firm,
Seek virtue in a middle term;
While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance,
To chain morality with science;
This plain good man, whose actions teach
More virtue than a sect can preach,
Pursues his course, unsagely blest,
His tutor whispering in his breast :
Nor could he act a purer part,
Though he had Tully all by heart ;
And when he drops the tear on woe,
He little knows or cares to know
That Epictetus blamed that tear,
By Heaven approved, to virtue dear!

In witching slumbers of the night,
I dream'd I was the airy sprite

That on thy natal moment smiled ;
And thought I wafted on my wing
Those flowers which in Elysium spring,

To crown my lovely mortal child. With olive-branch I bound thy head, Heart's-ease plong thy path I shed,

Which was to bloom through all thy years; Nor yet did I forget to bind Love's roses, with his myrtle twined,

And dew'd by sympathetic tears. Such was the wild but precious boon, Which Fancy, at her magic noon,

Bade meto Nona's image pay-
Oh! were love, thus doom'd to be
Thy little Liardian deity,

How blest around thy steps I'd play!
Thy life should softly steal along,
Calm as some lonely shepherd's song

That's heard at distance in the grove;
No cloud should ever shade thy sky,
No thorns along thy pathway lie,

But all be sunshine, peace, and love
The wing of Time should never brush
Thy dewy lip's luxuriant flush,

To bid its roses withering die; Nor age itself, though dim and dark, Should ever quench a single spark

That flashes from my Nona's eye!

Oh! when I've seen the morning beam
Floating within the dimpled stream,
While Nature, wakening from the night,
Has just put on her robes of light,
Have I, with cold optician’s gaze,
Explored the doctrine of those rays?
No, pedants, I have left to you
Nicely to separate hue from hue :
Go, give that moment up to art,
When Heaven and Nature claim the heart;
And dull to all their best attraction,
Go-measure angles of refraction!

PREFACE.

S

When, in the light of Nature s dawn

Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere Sorrow came, or Sin had drawn

'Twixt man and Heaven her curtain yet! When earth lay nearer to the skies

Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw, without surprise,
In the mid air, angelic eyes

Gazing upon this world below.
Alas, that passion should profane,

Even then, that morning of the earth! That, sadder still, the fatal stain

Should fall on hearts of heavenly birthAnd oh, that stain so dark should fall From woman's love, most sad of all!

This Poem, somewhat different in form, and much more limited in extent, was originally designed as an episode for a work about which I have been, at intervals, employed during the last two years. Some months since, however, I found that my friend Lord Byron had, by an accidental coincidence, chosen the same subject for a drama; and as I could not but feel the disadvantage of coming after so formidable a rival, I thought it best to publish my humble sketch immediately, with such alterations and additions as I had time to make, and thus, by an earlier appearance in the literary horizon, give myself the chance of what astronomers call an Heliacal rising, before the luminary, in whose light I was to be lost, should appear.

As objections may be made, by persons whose opinions I respect, to the selection of a subject of this nature from the Scripture, I think it right to remark that, in point of fact, the subject is not scriptural—the notion upon which it is founded (that of the love of angels for women) having originated in an erroneous translation by the LXX, of that verse in the sixth chapter of Genesis, upon which the sole authority for the fable rests. The foundation of my story, therefore, has as little to do with Holy Writ as have the dreams of the later Platonists, or the reveries of the Jewish divines; and, in appropriating the notion thus to the uses of poetry, I have done no more than establish it in that region of fiction, to which the opinions of the most rational Fathers, and of all other Christian theologians, have long ago consigned it.

In addition to the fitness of the subject for poetry, it struck me also as capable of affording an allegorical medium, through which might be shadowed out (as I have endeavoured to do in the following stories,) the fall of the soul from its original purity—the loss of light and happiness which it suffers, in the pursuit| of this world's perishable pleasures-and the punishments, both from conscience and divine justice, with which impurity, pride, and presumptuous inquiry into the awful secrets of God, are sure to be visited. The beautiful story of Cupid and Psyche owes its chief charm to this sort of “veiled meaning,” and it has been my wish (however I may have failed in the attempt) to communicate the same moral interest to the following pages.

One evening, in that time of bloom,

On a hill's side, where hung the ray Of sunset, sleeping in perfume,

Three noble youths conversing lay; And as they look’d, from time to time,

To the far sky, where Day-light furl'd His radiant wing, their brows sublime

Bespoke them of that distant worldCreatures of light, such as still play,

Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord, And through their infinite array Transmit each moment, night and day,

The echo of his luminous word !

Of heaven they spoke, and, still more oft,

Of the bright eyes that charm’d them thence; Till, yielding gradual to the soft

And balmy evening's influenceThe silent breathing of the flowers,

The melting light that beam'd above,
As on their first fond erring hours,

Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When, like a bird, from its high nest
Won down hy fascinating eyes,
For woman's smile he lost the skies.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

The First who spoke was one, with look

The least celestial of the threeA Spirit of light mould, that took

The prints of earth most yieldingly; Who, even in heaven, was not of those

Nearest the throne, but held a place Far off, among those shining rows

That circle out through endless space, And o'er whose wings the light from Him

In the great centre falls most dim. Still fair and glorious, he but shone Among those youths the unheavenliest oneA creature to whom light remain'd From Eden still, but alter'd, stain'd,

'Twas when the world was in its prime,

When the fresh stars had just begun Their race of glory, and young Time

Told his first birth-days by the sun;

And o'er whose brow not Love alone

A blight had, in his transit, sent, But other, earthlier joys had gone,

And left their foot-prints as they went.

'Tis not in words to tell the power, The despotism, that, from that hour, Passion held o'er me-day and night

I sought around each neighbouring spot, And, in the chase of this sweet light,

My task, and Heaven, and all forgotAll but the one, sole, haunting dream Of her I saw in that bright stream.

Sighing, as through the shadowy Past,

Like a tomb-searcher, Memory ran, Lifting each shroud that time had cast

O'er buried hopes, he thus began

FIRST ANGEL'S STORY

T was in a land, that far away

Into the golden orient lies, Where Nature knows not Night's delay, But springs to meet her bridegroom, Day,

Upon the threshold of the skies One morn, on earthly mission sent,

And midway choosing where to light, I saw from the blue element

Oh beautiful, but fatal sight!-
One of earth's fairest womankind,
Half veil'd from view, or rather shrined
In the clear crystal of a brook;

Which, while it hid no single gleam
Of her young beauties, made them look

More spirit-like, as they might seem Through the dim shadowing of a dream

Nor was it long, ere by her side

I found myself whole happy days, Listening to words, whose music vied

With our own Eden's seraph lays, When seraph lays are warmd by love, But wanting that, far, far above ! And looking into eyes where, blue And beautiful, like skies seen through The sleeping wave, for me there shone A heaven more worshipp'd than my own Oh what, while I could hear and see Such words and looks, was heaven to me? Though gross the air on earth I drew, 'Twas blessed, while she breathed it too; Though dark the flowers, though dim the sky, Love lent them light, while she was nigh. Throughout creation I but knew Two separate worlds—the one, that small,

Beloved, and consecrated spot Where Lea was—the other, all

The đull wide waste, where she was not!

Pausing in wonder I look'd on,

While, playfully around her breaking The waters, that like diamonds shone,

She mov'd in light of her own making. At length, as slowly I descended To view more near a sight so splendid, The tremble of my wings all o'er

(For through each plume I felt the thrill) Startled her, as she reach'd the shore

Of that small lake-her mirror stillAbove whose brink she stood, like snow When rosy with a sunset glow. Never shall I forget those eyes ! The shame, the innocent surprise Of that bright face, when in the air Uplooking, she beheld me there. It seem'd as if each thought and look,

And motion were that minute chain'd Fast to the spot, such root she took, And like a sunflower by a brook,

With face upturn'd—so still remain'd!

But vain my suit, my madness vain;
Though gladly, from her eyes to gain
One earthly look, one ray desire,

I would have torn the wings that hung
Furl'd at my back, and o'er that Fire

Unnamed in heaven their fragments flung ;’T was hopeless all-pure and unmoved

She stood, as lilies in the light

Of the hot noon but look more white;-
And though she loved me, deeply loved,
"T was not as man, as mortal—no,
Nothing of earth was in that glow-
She loved me but as one, of race
Angelic, from that radiant place
She saw so oft in dreams—that heaven,

To which her prayers at morn were sent,
And on whose light she gazed at even,
Wishing for wings, that she might go
Out of this shadowy world below,

To that free glorious element !

In pity to the wondering maid,

Though loth from such a vision turning, Downward I bent, beneath the shade

Of my spread wings, to hide the burning Of glances which—I well could feel

For me, for her, too warmly shone;
But ere I could again unseal
My restless eyes, or even steal

One side-long look, the maid was goneHid from me in the forest leaves,

Sudden as when, in all her charms
Of full-blown light, some cloud receive:

The moon into his dusky arms

Well I remember by her side,
Sitting at rosy eventide,
When, turning to the star, whose head
Look'd out, as from a bridal bed,
At that mute blushing hour,—she said,
“Oh! that it were my doom to be

The Spirit of yon beauteous star,
Dwelling up there in purity,

Alone, as all such bright things are;My sole employ to pray and shine,

To light my censer at the sun, And fling its fire towards the shrine

Of Him in Heaven, the Eternal One !"

and gay

So innocent the maid-so free

From mortal taint in soul and frame, Whom 't was my crime-my destiny

To love, ay, burn for, with a flame,

To which earth's wildest fires are tame.
Had you but seen her look, when first
From my mad lips the avowal burst ;
Not angry-no—the feeling had
No touch of anger, but most sad-
It was a sorrow, calm as deep,
A mournfulness that could not weep,
So fill'd the heart was to the brink,
So fix'd and frozen there—to think
That angel natures—even I,
Whose love she clung to, as the tie
Between her spirit and the sky,
Should fall thus headlong from the height

Of such pure glory into sin-
The sin, of all, most sure to blight,-
The sin, of all, that the soul's light

Is soonest lost, extinguish'd in!
That, though but frail and human, she
Should, like the half-bird of the

sea, Try with her wing sublimer air, While I, a creature born up there, Should meet her, in my fall from light, From heaven and peace, and turn her flight Downward again, with me to drink Of the salt tide of sin, and sink!

In summer winds, the young

And beautiful of this bright earth. And she was there, and 'mid the young

And beautiful stood first, alone;
Though on her gentle brow still hung

The shadow I that morn had thrown-
The first that ever shame or woe
Had cast upon its vernal snow.
My heart was madden'd-in the flush

Of the wild revel I gave way
To all that frantic mirth-that rush

Of desperate gaiety, which they
Who never felt how pain's excess
Can break out thus, think happiness-
Sad mimicry of mirth and life,
Whose flashes come but from the strife
Of inward passions—like the light
Struck out by clashing swords in fight.
Then, too, that juice of earth, the bane
And blessing of man's heart and brain-
That draught of sorcery, which brings
Phantoms of fair, forbidden things-
Whose drops, like those of rainbows, smile

Upon the mists that circle man, Brightening not only earth, the while,

But grasping heaven, too, in their span!Then first the fatal wine-cup rain'd

Its dews of darkness through my lips,
Casting whate'er of light remain'd

To my lost soul into eclipse,
And filling it with such wild dreams,

Such fantasies and wrong desires,
As in the absence of heaven's beams,

Haunt us for ever-like wild fires
That walk this earth, when day retires.

That very night-my heart had grown

Impatient of its inward burning;
The term, too, of my stay was flown,
And the bright Watchers' near the throne
Already, if a meteor shone
Between them and this nether zone,
Thought 't was their herald's wing returning :-
Oft did the potent spell-word, given

To envoys hither from the skies,
To be pronounced, when back to heaven

It is their hour or wish to rise,
Come to my lips that fatal day;

And once, too, was so nearly spoken, That my spread plumage in the ray And breeze of heaven began to play

When my heart fail'd—the spell was brokenThe word unfinished died away, And my check'd plumes, ready to soar, Fell slack and lifeless as before.

Now hear the rest-our banquet done,

I sought her in the accustom'd bower, Where late we oft, when day was gone, And the world hush'd, had met alone,

At the same silent moonlight hour.
I found her-oh, so beautiful!

Why, why have hapless angels eyes ?
Or why are there not flowers to cull,
As fair as woman,

in Still did her brow, as usual, turn To her loved star, which seem'd to burn

Purer than ever on that night;

While she, in looking grew more bright, As though that planet were an urn

From which her eyes drank liquid light.

yon skies?

How could I leave a world which she,
Or lost or won, made all to me,
Beyond home-glory-every thing ?

How fly, while yet there was a chance,
A hope—ay, even of perishing

Utterly by that fatal glance ?
No matter where my wanderings were,

So there she look'd, moved, breathed aboutWoe, ruin, death, more sweet with her,

Than all heaven's proudest joys without ! But, to return—that very day

A feast was held, where, full of mirth, Came, crowding thick as flowers that play

There was a virtue in that scene,

A spell of holiness around, Which would have—had my brain not been

Thus poison'd, madden'd-held me bound,

As though I stood on God's own ground. Even as it was, with soul all flame,

And lips that burn'd in their own sighs, I stood to gaze, with awe and shameThe memory of Eden came

Full o'er me when I saw those eyes; And though too well each glance of mine

To the pale shrinking maiden proved How far, alas, from aught divine,