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!

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 Daylight furl'd
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Creatures 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 influence
The 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 by fascinating eyes,
For Woman's smile he lost the skies.

a

The First who spoke was one, with look

The least celestial of the three-
A 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 bụt shone
Among those youths th' unheavenliest one-

A creature to whom light remain'd
From Eden still, but alter'd, stain'd,
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.

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 :

(11)

FIRST ANGEL'S STORY.

'Twas 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 mid-way 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 po single gleam
Of her young beauties, made them look

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

a

Pausing in wonder I look'd on,

While, playfully around her breaking

The waters, that like diamonds shone,

She moved 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 still-
Above 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!

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