And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures. —KORAN

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 enamoured 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 fervour 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.





