Impartiality - Free Audiobook

ISRAFEL

               In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
                 "Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
               None sing so wildly well
               As the angel Israel,
               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 Israeli's fire
               Is owing to that lyre
                 By which he sits and sings—
               The trembling living wire
                 Of those unusual strings.

               But the skies that angel trod,
               Where deep thoughts are a duty—
               Where 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 thin-e; 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 Israfel
                 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.