CHORUS OF EDEN SPIRITS. (Chanting from paradise, while ADAM and EvE fly across the Sword-glare) Harken, oh harken! let your souls behind you Our voices feel along the Dread to find you, Through the thick-shielded and strong-marshalled angels, They press and pierce: Our requiems follow fast on our evangels,— We are but orphaned spirits left in Eden God gave us golden cups, and we were bidden But now our right hand hath no cup remaining, The mystic hydromel is spilt, and staining The whole earth through. Most ineradicable stains, for showing (Not interfused!) That brighter colours were the world's foregoing, Than shall be used. Harken, oh harken! ye shall harken surely For years and years, The noise beside you, dripping coldly, purely, Of spirits' tears. The yearning to a beautiful denied you, Ideal sweetnesses shall over-glide you, In all your music, our pathetic minor And all good gifts shall mind you of diviner, We shall be near you in your poet-languors What time ye vex the desert with vain angers, And when upon you, weary after roaming, By the foregone ye shall discern the coming, Spirits of the trees. Hark! the Eden trees are stirring, Each still throbbing in vibration Slow and gradual, branch and head; Voice of the same, but softer. Which divine impulsion cleaves In dim movements to the leaves Dropt and lifted, dropt and lifted In the nightlight and the noonlight, Never stirred by rain or breeze.. The sylvan sounds, no longer audible, Each footstep of your treading Treads out some murmur which ye heard before. Farewell! the trees of Eden Ye shall hear nevermore. River-spirits. Hark! the flow of the four rivers- How the silence round you shivers, A softer voice. Think a little, while ye hear, Of the banks Where the willows and the deer And a chant of undertones,— The river-sounds, no longer audible, Each footstep of your treading Treads out some murmur which ye heard before. Farewell! the streams of Eden, Ye shall hear nevermore. Bird-spirit. I am the nearest nightingale I sit upon a cypress bough, Close to the gate, and I fling my song And the warden angels let it pass, Sings in the garden, sweet and true. And I bridge abysmal agonies With strong, clear calms of harmonies,— And something abides, and something floats, In the song which I sing after you. Fare ye well, farewell! The creature-sounds, no longer audible, Each footstep of your treading Treads out some cadence which ye heard before. Ye shall hear nevermore. Flower-spirits. We linger, we linger, The last of the throng, Of blossom and bloom. Till your smile waxed too holy We stroke down your hair, We faint in our lament And pine into air. Fare ye well, farewell! The Eden scents, no longer sensible, |