The Recording Angel

Not in darkness and aloof, 
O'er the high and jagged roof, 
Where the thunder-courser's hoof 
     Tramples from the solid flint 
     Lightning, with its hurried dint, 
     Till the earth glares in the glint;

Nor amid their fiery camp, 
Who aloft, with silent tramp, 
Bear the sun's eternal lamp,
     Earth's Recording Angel stands, 
     Giant-limbed and large of hands, 
     With a scroll might veil the lands;

Nor with pen from seraph clipt, 
Or like that with which, fire-tipt, 
Writeth God his stellar script;
     He records the deeds of men, 
     Which some awful where and when 
     Shall reveal to them again.

Silently and very still,
Like the shadow of the ill 
Clinging to an earthly will ;
     Like the sunshine of the good 
     Flowing from a holy mood,
     As if flow it must and should, 

Comes the record which he keeps;
Shining down the starry steeps, 
Frowning from the nether deeps;
     Crowding — with what fruits they win 
     From the veildest life within —
     Boughs of good and vines of sin.

In the failing heart and limb, 
In the eye debased and dim, 
On the wrung brow, scowled and grim, 
     On the knotted cheek of care, 
     And the wan lip of despair, 
     Stands the erring fore-life bare.

In the mild, love-speaking eye, 
Deep and crystal as the sky, 
In the clear cheek's ruddy dye, 
     And the curvéd lips, which throw, 
     From their many-shafted bow, 
     Only kind words, soft and low;

All the hallowed past revives, —
Honey, stored in many hives 
By the deeds of gentle lives.
     In your heart, and soul, and brain, 
     Aim, Endeavor, Loss and Gain, —
     Viewless as a joy or pain, —

Still before that Angel-eye 
Pass, revealed in order, by, 
And pronounce their history.
     Do ye count the tale untold, 
     Which the weirds of Silence hold 
     By their potents manifold?

Even now her thin lips flutter, 
And we hear the troubled mutter 
Of the secrets which they utter.
     Will ye think that God delays, 
     If no lightning-signal blaze 
     To reveal your evil ways?

While ye dream your impious hope, 
Lo! your spirits' dungeons ope, 
And the eyeless Passions grope
     Wormlike base, and blindly crawl 
     Down your hard cheeks painted wall, 
     Till their slime-track writes them all.

Barter's Alchemist, whose lore
Aims to heap wealth more and more, 
How it chills thy blood to ore, 
     Till thy thick heart-pulses go 
     With a dull metallic flow,
     Never stirred by love or woe!

On thy gnarled and sallow face 
All the coin has left its trace, 
Eagle's beak and talons base!
     Good man, shrinking from the praise 
     Of thy deeds, in silent ways, 
     Through thy very blush it plays.

Creep and cringe, thou coward soul, 
In the dark earth, like a mole!
Blinded soon thou ‘lt quit thy hole,
     And in day, unconscious, thrust 
     Thy poor body, vile with dust, 
     Scorned of all the true and just.

Strut in gold, thou son of shame, 
Hiding from a just defame!
Through thy thick gold leaks the blame.
     Wearied Minstrel, who, alone, 
     In the loud world's iron drone, 
     Sing'st thy musical undertone;

Sing not less for all the noise 
That o'ertops thy silver voice, 
But in secret thought rejoice:
     All thy after-steps shall be 
     To a grand, high harmony, 
     Evermore bewraying thee.

Not a tone of thine, which cost 
Many a pang to feel it tost 
On the rude roar, shall be lost;
     Myriad hearts will catch the tune, 
     And obey thee, late or soon,— 
     Tide-waves to thy waxing moon!

And though none but thine were blest, 
All its power should stand confest 
In thy large life's busy rest.
     Stars which have no burning ray
     Govern suns which rule the day, 
     And we know their unseen way.

Ne'er a flower was vainly fair, 
Never on the desert air 
Spent its fragrance anywhere.
     Ye who live to love and toil 
     On a verdant valley's soil,
     Sacred from the world's turmoil;

When your wealth of clustered grapes,
Lintels of the market drapes
With luxurious hues and shapes,
     Wisdom's heart shall know as well
     All the warm nooks of your dell 
     As if these had tongues to tell.

Purple, red, and pearly white, 
Bursting-full of mellow light 
And the starlit dews of night, —
     Charming babblers, mute and sweet, —
     Every one some secret meet, 
     Of your still life, shall repeat.

Heaven and earth, anear and far, 
From the rose-bud to the star, 
By a law that cannot jar,
     Sphere their lives, and render well, 
     For the grains their orbs that swell 
     Strict word and immutable.

Every where and every when,.
In the world of things and men, 
Stands the Angel of the Pen, 
     Undeceived by lying lips;
     From his eye no cunning slips,
     'Tis a sun without eclipse.

Every word and thought and look, 
Trembling from its cloven nook, 
Lights upon his Doomsday book 
     In divine daguerreotype ;
     And pursuing boon or stripe
     Seals the page when fate is ripe.