Strophe

How glares the noble front of Heaven! Why streams the holy light so red Upon our face, overspread With mournful mists from darkness driven? What sad cloud hath profaned That pure and never-stained Clear sapphire, wondrous bright. The fire, the flame, the light Of the resplendent Power, Omnipotence? Why doth that glow Of God as black as blood thus grow That in our aery bower So pleased our eyes? O Angels, say The cause of this deep gloom now dimming Your radiance? O'er Adam's sway On choral raptures ye were swimming, On Spirit breath, amid a glow That vault and choir and court below And towers and battlements o'erflooded With showers of gold, while joys unclouded Smiled from the brows of all that live: Who is it can the reason give?