by Poe · Cluster: Poet as Prophet · Prophet · Romantic Movement (Sensibility)

Abstract

Lyric praising the angel Israfel whose lyre outsings all creation, contrasting heavenly song with the mortal poet’s earthbound music.

Connections

Topoi: Poet as Prophet, Inexpressibility Archetypes: Prophet Motifs: Music and Song, Stars, Moon, Supernatural Themes & Concepts: Imagination, Beauty, Artist and Society, Immortality of Art Fame, Sublime Forms & Genres: Lyric, Ode Historical References: Eastern Religion Comparative Religion

Testo integrale / Full text

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 all the 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.

  • And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lut, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.—KORAN.
    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 unimpassion’d song:
    To thee the laurels belong
    Best bard, because the wisest!
    Merrily live, and long!
    The extacies above
    With thy burning measures suit—
    Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
    With the fervor 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.