The Angel’s Message

’Twas a beautiful evening:--towards the calm west
The god of the summer triumphantly rolled;
As the glory gates oped to receive their bright guest
They let out a torrent of heaven’s own gold.

It mellowed the lawn, where the poplar’s tall spire
Threw a shade, which dissolved as it longer became.
It lit up the hall like a temple of fire
As its old Norman windows reflected the flame.

All was silent; for Philomel yet did not raise
His song, which both sadness and rapture inspire:
The thrush and finch ceased their vesper of praise
To gaze on the glory: and mutely admire.

The newly born zephyr, so gentle and mild,
Strayed over the lawn to a chamber above,
Where her sad mother sighed o’er her withering child,
The frail blossom born of unsanctified love.

Oh! the sigh from an innocent heart--like the breeze
Which distils from the flowers those essences rare,
Too subtle for e’en the inquisitive bees--
Is laden with sweetness that medicines care.

But not so the breathings exhaled from the breast
Where guilt makes a sepulchre, shame finds a home;
And the hope that with virtue alone deigns to rest,
With its heavenly solace may never more come.

Yet the scene was so tranquil, the grandeur so calm,
That its influence e’en to that sad heart would steal;
Like an angel of charity pouring its balm
To soothe the deep wound that it never might heal.

And the mother sat watching that dear life, whose ebb
Was so stealthy, that even love’s fears were beguiled,
Till the spider-fay sleep spun its magical web
’Twixt the frail one’s fond eyes and her innocent child.

And the soft zephyrs played on each delicate brow,
Like tender caresses of angels unseen;
Now lifting a curl from a forehead of snow,
Now kissing a cheek where a tear-pearl had been.

They are dreaming--Hark!--Whence that mysterious sound?
Like the wild harp of Æolus disturbed by the wings
Of some spirit that playfully hovers around,
And fan into song the invisible strings;

Or the hymn which the spirit of God’s universe
Sings unto the planets and suns, as they roll,
Or the chorus celestial beings rehearse
When they welcome to heaven an innocent soul.

Lo! a ladder of sunbeams shoots down from the skies
To the child, and a host of bright beings appear;
And as they descend their sweet voices arise
More loud and distinct on the mother’s rapt ear.

Oh! ne’er has the tongue of a mortal expressed
The accents that fall on the ears of the soul,
The thoughts to an atom of spirit addressed
By its infinite, mighty, mysterious whole.

The silver-winged choristers press round the pair;
The chorus has ceased; but a voice far more sweet
In its unaided melody, takes up the air,
Which feebly the muse thus essays to repeat.

“This is the dear sister our love longs to win,
Soft!--bear her away to the home of the blest,
Ere a pang of earth’s sorrow, or taint of its sin,
Hath stricken or sullied her innocent breast.”

They raise her; again in rich harmony blend
The sweet voices; a glance half of joy, half of pain
They beam on the mother, then gracefully wend
Their ethereal pathway to heaven again.

The chorus expires:--their images shown
In the dimness of distance like faint shadows seem;
Till the gates now regained are wide open thrown,
And each form stands revealed in the outrushing gleam.

The child is upraised in a halo of light
More radiant far than was e’er seen on this earth;
It smiles an adieu!--then departs from the sight;
The gates close:--it enters its heavenly birth!

All was dark till a bright star appeared in the place,
Shedding down like a beacon of hope its pure ray,
And the mother awaking, rushed forth to embrace--
Not her child--but the husk which its soul cast away.

And oft, when the earliest shadows of night
Veil the earth, the bereaved one will gaze on that star;
There is joy in its glory and hope in its light,
For it seems like her child looking down from afar.