THE ANGEL’S VISIT.

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BY MRS. S. ANNA LEWIS.

———

One December evening cold,

Filled with sorrows manifold,

To the sere and sallow wold

With an elfin step I stole,

To hold converse with my soul

Of the loved and lost of yore,

Dwelling on the shadowy shore—

The Spirit-shore.

Very lonely was my breast—

On that night no genial guest

By its hearth-stone paused to rest;

Dim the lamp of Hope did gleam

O’er my young heart’s darkened stream;

And I sought from mystic store

In that lamp new oil to pour—

Fresh oil to pour.

Dark and drear and desolate,

On a mossy crag I sate,

Watching through the heavenly gate

Many a solemn Angel-band

Marching to the Spirit-land,

When Love tapping on the door

Of my heart, did there implore—

A Home implore.

Trembling, shivering, timid-hearted,

From that holy dream I started,

As a ghost of the departed

From the gates of light had drifted,

And with icy fingers lifted

Up the latchet of the door

Of my doating heart once more—

Ah me! once more!

Then aside I dashed the tear,

Lower bent my mental ear,

More distinct the taps to hear,

And all thoughtless did begin

To tell Love to enter in.

When an Angel sought this shore

To defeat him at the door—

My lone heart’s door.

Low his golden tresses streaming

O’er his wings with soul-light beaming,

Perched he down amid my dreaming,

Perching, sat ere I could rise.

Gazing full into my eyes,

As my soul he would explore—

And this Cupid by the door—

My lone heart’s door.

Calmly then the Angel spoke,

Words that o’er my spirit broke,

Like the chimes in dream-land woke—

“Sad, meek solitaire of earth,

Loving, trusting from thy birth—

Soul that heavenward dost soar!

Turn this traitor from the door—

Thy lone heart’s door.

“In thy breast he seeks no home—

From the blithest he will roam;

He will enter the heart’s dome,

Filch its every jewel fair,

Plant his barbed arrow there,

And then straight go out the door,

Back returning never more—

Ah, never more!

“Search the chronicles of love,

See the nets that he has wove,

To entrap the timid Dove;

See in Lethe’s crowded domes

Ashes of his hecatombs;

And I wot thou’lt keep the door

Of thy heart locked evermore—

Forever more.

“Blossoms in thy heart may bloom,

E’en while Love hath there his home,

But their roots are in the tomb;

And the tramp of funeral-feet

Lone thy spirit’s ear will greet,

When too late to lock the door

Of thy heart forever more—

Ah, evermore!

“Therefore, mournful child of song,

Leave Love to the heartless throng,

Who can cope with wo and wrong;

Pour thy soul’s surcharge of fire

On an altar holier, higher,

And let Reason keep the door

Of thy fond heart evermore—

Forever more.”

When the Angel this had said,

Out his burnished wings he spread,

And above the tree-tops sped;

Upward, upward, where the moon

Floated in her cloudy noon,

Leaving me to guard the door

Of my heart forever more—

Ah, evermore!

But this heart would not obey

What the missioned sprite did say—

It would have its willful way;

It made Love its chiefest guest,

Till he banished Peace and Rest,

When he straight went out the door,

Locking Wo in evermore—

Ah, evermore!