Chorus of Angels

What plaint arises here, unpleasant sound? The Heavens shrink back in fright. This air on high Hath not been wont to hear the wail of woe On sad notes sobbing through these joyful vaults. Nay, wreaths and palms and loud triumphal song And tuneful harps are far more meet for us. What can this be? Who crouches here with head Down-hanging, sad, forlorn, and needlessly Oppressed? Who gave them food for grief? Who can The reason guess? O fellow choristers, Come then, 'tis needful that we ask the cause Of their lament and this dark cloud of woe, That robs our splendor of its radiance And dims and dulls the bright translucent glow Of the eternal feast. Heaven is a court Where joy and peace and all delights abound. Grief never nestled 'neath these lucid eaves, Nor woeful pain. Ah! fellow choristers. Oh! come, console them in their heaviness.