Lo, while the great Archangel's voice rang on,
The spirit by that tearful earth-cloud shaded
In ever clear and clearer beauty shone
To full transfiguration; for it faded
As mists of night whose meshes are unbraided
By the swift beams of morning, so that they
Evanish wholly in the perfect day.
And there, amidst the wheeling constellations,
Upon the central disc of burning gold
That throbbed harmonious with their palpitations,
He stood with Raphael glorious to behold. . . . .
Then all the Vision from my brain was rolled;
For that broad disc of palpitating fire,
Consuming far through heaven the dead night's pyre,
And bridging the deep bay with golden splendour,
Was our own Sun . . . The sky was clear and calm,
The morning air most fragrant, fresh and tender;
The green earth glittered with its dewy balm:
The flashing waters sang a joyous psalm,
All was as beautiful and pure that morn
As if a sinless world had just been born.
Jersey, 1861.
