I.

Far back in the infant ages,

Before the eras stamped their autographs

Upon the stony records of the earth;

Before the burning incense of the sun

Rolled up the interlucent space,

Brightening the blank abyss;

Ere the Recording Angel's tears

Were shed for man's transgressions:

A Seraph, with a face of light,

And hair like heaven's golden atmosphere,

Blue eyes serene in their beatitude,

Godlike in their tranquillity,

Features as perfect as God's dearest work,

And stature worthy of her race,

Lived high exalted in the sacred sphere

That floated in a sea of harmony

Translucent as pure crystal, or the light

That flowed, unceasing, from this higher world

Unto the spheres beneath it. Far below

The extremest regions underneath the Earth

The first spheres rose, of vari-coloured light,

In calm rotation through aërial deep,

Like seas of jasper, blue, and coralline,

Crystal and violet; layers of worlds —

The robes of ages that had passed away,

Left as memorials of their sojournings.

For nothing passes wholly. All is changed.

The Years but slumber in their sepulchres,

And speak prophetic meanings in their sleep.

Oh, how our souls are gladdened,

When we think of that brave old age,

When God's light came down

From heaven, to crown

Each act of the virgin page!

Oh, how our souls are saddened,

At the deeds which were done since then,

By the angel race

In the holy place,

And on earth by the sons of men!

Lo, as the years are fleeting,

With their burden of toil and pain,

We know that the page

Of that primal age

Will be opened up once again.