Antistrophe

When Gabriel's trumpet, richly sounding, Inflamed our souls till a new song Of praise burst forth among Those dales, with roses fair abounding, 'Mid the celestial bowers Of Paradise, whose flowers Did ope, joyed by such dew Of praise, then upwards through The vast seemed Envy stealing. A countless host of Spirits dumb. And wan and pale and sad and grum, In crowds, dire woe revealing, Crept slowly past, with drooping eye, And forehead smooth now frowning rimple. The doves of Heaven here on high, Once innocent and pure and simple, Began to sigh, and seemed to grieve As if e'en Heaven they did believe Too small since Adam was created, And man for such a crown was fated. This stain offends the Eye of Light: It flames the face of the Infinite.

In love we would yet mingle in their ranks: Again to calm this restless discontent.