Israfel
In
Heaven
a
spirit
doth
dwell
"Whose
heart-strings
are
a
lute";
None
sing
so
wildly
well
As
the
angel
Israfel,
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
enamored
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
Israfeli'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
fervor
of
thy
lute-
Well
may
the
stars
be
mute!
Yes,
Heaven
is
thine;
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.
