How like an Angel came I down!
How bright are all things here!
When first among His works I did appear
O how their Glory me did crown!
The world resembled His Eternity,
In which my soul did walk;
And every thing that I did see
Did with me talk.

The skies in their magnificence,
The lively, lovely air;
Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair!
The stars did entertain my sense,
And all the works of God, so bright and pure,
So rich and great did seem,
As if they ever must endure
In my esteem.

A native health and innocence
Within my bones did grow,
And while my God did all his Glories show,
I felt a vigour in my sense
That was all Spirit. I within did flow
With seas of life, like wine;
I nothing in the world did know
But 'twas divine.

Harsh ragged objects were concealed,
Oppressions, tears and cries,
Sins, griefs, complaints, dissensions, weeping eyes
Were hid, and only things revealed
Which heavenly Spirits and the Angels prize.
The state of Innocence
And bliss, not trades and poverties,
Did fill my sense.

The streets were paved with golden stones,
The boys and girls were mine,
Oh how did all their lovely faces shine!
The sons of men were holy ones,
In joy and beauty they appeared to me,
And every thing which here I found,
While like an angel I did see,
Adorned the ground.

Rich diamond and pearl and gold
In every place was seen;
Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green,
Mine eyes did everywhere behold.
Great Wonders clothed with glory did appear,
Amazement was my bliss,
That and my wealth was everywhere;
No joy to this!

Cursed and devised proprieties,
With envy, avarice
And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Paradise,
Flew from the splendour of mine eyes,
And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds,
I dreamed not aught of those,
But wandered over all men's grounds,
And found repose.

Proprieties themselves were mine
And hedges ornaments,
Walls, boxes, coffers, and their rich contents
Did not divide my joys, but all combine.
Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteemed
My joys by others worn:
For me they all to wear them seemed
When I was born.

"One struggle more," and I am free 
From pangs that rend my heart in twain; 
One last long sigh to love and thee, 
Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 
With things that never pleased before: 
Though every joy is fled below, 
What future grief can touch me more? 

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; 
Man was not form'd to live alone: 
I'll be that light, unmeaning thing 
That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
It was not thus in days more dear, 
It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here; 
Thou'rt nothing, — all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe! 
The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 
Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 
Dispel awhile the sense of ill; 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 
The heart — the heart is lonely still! 

On many a lone and lovely night 
It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky; 
For then I deem'd the heavenly light 
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: 
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 
When sailing o'er the Aegean wave, 
"Now Thyrza gazes on that moon —"
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave! 

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, 
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
"'T is comfort still," I faintly said,
"That Thyrza cannot know my pains:" 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 
A boon 't is idle then to give, 
Relenting Nature vainly gave 
My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! 

My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 
When love and life alike were new! 
How different now thou meet'st my gaze! 
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! 
The heart that gave itself with thee 
Is silent — ah, were mine as still! 
Though cold as e'en the dead can be, 
It feels, it sickens with the chill. 

Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! 
Though painful, welcome to my breast! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 
Or break the heart to which thou'rt press'd! 
Time tempers love, but not removes, 
More hallow'd when its hope is fled: 
Oh! what are thousand living loves 
To that which cannot quit the dead?