The angels best beloved of Heaven,
Stand ever nearest to the throne;
To these, and but to these, is given,
Unveil'd their glorious Lord to own.

And from our fallen human race
Are singled out a happy few,
Who thus in Nature's eyes may trace
His Holy Spirit shining through.

In these Ambition's self we see,
A seraph ever pure and bright,
That spreads its wings in haste to flee,
And breathes in streams of azure light.

The lips that breathe a deathless lay,
The harp whose music is most sweet,
The hand that bids us still survey
The form we never more may meet.

Oh! such will still in heaven be ours;
And when we join its happy band,
To heaven we'll consecrate the powers
Of lips, and harp, and skilful hand.

O Painting, Music, Poesy,
Ye form the soul's true polar star,(1)
And guide it o'er life's stormy sea
To where heaven opens from afar.

Then, lady, still your noble art,
May you pursue with fervent love;
God gives to thee a feeling heart,
And power all feeling hearts to move.

For thee, when in the 'gorgeous west,'
The sun declines his golden head,
What lovely visions o'er thy breast
That peaceful hour must ever shed!

Those twilight dreams-creations fair-
Are sure prophetic glimpses given
Of joys that souls like thine will share
When wafted to the rest of heaven.