The Cherub

Was it not lovely to behold
A cherub come down from the sky,
A beauteous thing of heavenly mould,
With ringlets of the wavy gold,
Dancing and floating curiously ?

To see it come down to the earth
This beauteous thing of heavenly birth !

Leaving the fields of balm and bliss,
To dwell in such a world as this !

I heard a maiden sing the while
A strain so holy, it might beguile
An angel from the radiant spheres,
That have swum in light ten thousand years ;
Ten times ten thousand is too few —
Child of heaven, can this be true ?
And then I saw that beauteous thing
Slowly from the clouds descending,
Brightness, glory, beauty blending,
In the mid air hovering.
It had also a halo round its head,
It was not of the rainbow's hue,
For in it was no shade of blue,
But a beam of amber mixed with red,
Like that which mingles in the ray
A little after the break of day.

Its raiment was the thousand dyes
Of flowers in the heavenly paradise ;
Its track a beam of the sun refined,
And its chariot was the southern wind :
My heart danced in me with delight,
And my spirits mounted at the sight,
And I said within me it is well ;
But where the bower, or peaceful dell,
Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell :
Then I bethought me of the place
To lodge the messenger of grace ;
And I chose the ancient sycamore,
And the little green by Greta's shore !

It is a spot so passing fair,
That sainted thing might sojourn there.

Go tell yon stranger artizan,
Build as quickly as he can.
Heaven shield us from annoy !
What shall form this dome of joy ?
The leaf of the rose would be too rude
For a thing that is not flesh and blood ;
The walls must be of the sunny air,
And the roof the silvery gossamer,
And all the ceiling, round and round,
Wove half of light, and half of sound ;
The sounds must be the tones that fly
From distant harp, just ere they die ;
And the light the moon's soft midnight ray,
When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey.

And such a bower of light and love,
Of beauty and of harmony,
In earth below, or heaven above,
No mortal thing shall ever see.

The dream is past, it is gone away !

The rose is blighted on the spray :
I look behind, I look before,
The happy vision is no more !

But in its room a darker shade
Than eye had pierced, or darkness made.

I cannot turn, yet do not know
What I would, or whither go ;
But I have heard, to heart of sin,
A small voice whispering within,
'Tis all I know, and all I trust, —
" That man is weak, but God is just."