Chapter 6

Bringing faint airs of balm, and tones that rouse Thoughts of a Far Land; Binding so softly upon aching brows Death's poppy-garland.

O fearful blast, I shudder at thy sound; Like some poor mortal Who hears the Three that mark life's doomèd bound Sit at his portal.

Thy wings seem laden with sad, shrieking souls, Borne, all unwilling, From earth's known plains, to the unknown gulf that rolls, Evermore filling.

Fierce wind! will the Death-Angel come like thee, And swiftly bear me-- _Whither_?--What mysteries may unfold to me? What horrors scare me?

Shall I go wandering on through silent space, Lonely--still lonely? Or seek through myriad spirit-ranks one face, And miss that only?

Shall I not then drop down from sphere to sphere, Palsied and aimless? Or will my being new so changed appear That grief dies nameless?

Rather, I pray Him who Himself is Love, Out of whose essence All pure souls spring, and towards Him tending, move Back to His presence--

His light transfiguring, may not efface The soul's earth-features, That the dear human likeness each may trace-- Glorified creatures:

That we may love each other, only taught Holier desiring; And seek all wisdom, as on earth we sought, Ever aspiring:

That we may do all work we left undone Through frail unmeetness; From sphere to sphere together passing on Towards full completeness.

Then, strong Azrael, be thy solemn call Soft as spring-breezes, Or like this blast, whose loud fiend-festival My heart's pulse freezes--

I will not fear thee!--If thou safely keep My soul, God's giving, And my soul's soul--I, wakening from death's sleep, Shall first know _living_.

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End of Project Gutenberg's Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 440, by Various