Raphael

I came to call ye back to your fit sphere, In the great name and at the word of God. Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear That which I came to do: till now we trod Together the eternal space; together Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die! Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, And much which she inherits: but oh! why Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd, Without involving ever some vast void In the immortal ranks? immortal still In their immeasurable forfeiture. Our brother Satan fell; his burning will Rather than longer worship dared endure! But ye who still are pure! Seraphs! less mighty than that mightiest one, Think how he was undone! And think if tempting man can compensate For heaven desired too late? Long have I warr'd, Long must I war With him who deem'd it hard To be created, and to acknowledge him Who midst the cherubim Made him as suns to a dependent star, Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. I loved him—beautiful he was: oh, heaven! Save his who made, what beauty and what power Was ever like to Satan's! Would the hour In which he fell could ever be forgiven! The wish is impious: but, oh ye! Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd! Eternity With him, or with his God, is in your choice: He hath not tempted you; he cannot tempt The angels, from his further snares exempt: But man hath listen'd to his voice, And ye to woman's—beautiful she is, The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. The snake but vanquish'd dust; but she will draw A second host from heaven, to break heaven's law. Yet, yet, oh fly! Ye cannot die; But they Shall pass away, While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky For perishable clay, Whose memory in your immortality Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day. Think how your essence differeth from theirs In all but suffering! why partake The agony to which they must be heirs— Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with cares, And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil? Even had their days been left to toil their path Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, Still they are Evil's prey, and Sorrow's spoil. Credits: Reprinted from Lord Byron: Six Plays. Lord Byron. Los Angeles: Black Box Press, 2007.    

5 minutes