Reminiscences of Homer

Hello everyone –

I’ve been doing a lot of reminiscing lately about Homer, the legendary epic poet of ancient Greece – thinking not only about the poems and tales ascribed to him, but also about Homer as a literary figure/character himself. As a Classics major at the University of Illinois during the late 1980s and early 1990s, Homer was an inspirational figure to me, because he was widely believed in antiquity to have been blind, and because I have lived all my life with low vision. I can recall giving a short talk about this topic at Allen Hall during my undergraduate years, but alas, the manuscript has perished. J

Here is a short introduction to Homeric studies by the Bostonian classicist Thomas Bulfinch, along with two poems about Homer by John Keats.

Except from Chapter 35 of The Age of Fable by Thomas Bulfinch (1796-1867)

Homer, from whose poems of the Iliad and Odyssey we have taken the chief part of our chapters of the Trojan war and the return of the Grecians, is almost as mythical a personage as the heroes he celebrates. The traditionary story is that he was a wandering minstrel, blind and old, who travelled from place to place singing his lays to the music of his harp, in the courts of princes or the cottages of peasants, and dependent upon the voluntary offerings of his hearers for support. Byron calls him “the blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle,” and a well-known epigram, alluding to the uncertainty of the fact of his birthplace, says:

“Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead,
Through which the living Homer begged his bread.”

These seven were Smyrna, Scio, Rhodes, Colophon, Salamis, Argos, and Athens.

Modern scholars have doubted whether the Homeric poems are the work of any single mind. This arises from the difficulty of believing that poems of such length could have been committed to writing at so early an age as that usually assigned to these, an age earlier than the date of any remaining inscriptions or coins, and when no materials capable of containing such long productions were yet introduced into use. On the other hand, it is asked how poems of such length could have been handed down from age to age by means of the memory alone. This is answered by the statement that there was a professional body of men, called Rhapsodists, who recited the poems of others, and whose business it was to commit to memory and rehearse for pay the national and patriotic legends.

The prevailing opinion of the learned, at this time, seems to be that the framework and much of the structure of the poems belong to Homer, but that there are numerous interpolations and additions by other hands.

The date assigned to Homer, on the authority of Herodotus, is 850 B.C.

“To Homer” by John Keats (1795-1821)

Standing aloof in giant ignorance,

Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,

As one who sits ashore and longs perchance

To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas.

So thou wast blind; -- but then the veil was rent,

For Jove uncurtained Heaven to let thee live,

And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent,

And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive;

Aye on the shores of darkness there is light,

And precipices show untrodden green,

There is a budding morrow in midnight,

There is a triple sight in blindness keen;

Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befell

To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell.

“On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”

By John Keats

Editor’s Note: The Chapman here referred to is George Chapman (1559-1634), a British classical scholar, translator, and poet. His was the first complete English translation of the works attributed to Homer – the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Homeric Hymns.

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific — and all his men

Looked at each other with a wild surmise —

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Until next time –

Rob J

Clear Winter Skies!

Hello everyone –

Can you imagine it? We’ve had five consecutive days of SUNSHINE in the midst of a damp & dreary winter here in East Central Illinois! It was great time to get outside and enjoy the sunny weather – and also a great time to have a look at the night-time sky! Here are some poems about wintertime and the stars – the winter stars are my favorites! J

FROM THE ORPHIC HYMNS

Editor’s Note: The annual cycle of the seasons and its effects on our natural surroundings are recurring themes throughout world literature. The Orphic poets – a guild of ancient Greek philosopher-bards named after their legendary founder, Orpheus – celebrated the changing of the seasons, the wonders of the natural world, and their lofty ideals in poetic chants, several dozen of which were preserved in written form after centuries of oral transmission. In the poetic forms of their prescientific age (ca. 1000-500 BCE), the Orphic poets chose to personify the forces of Nature, the celestial orbs, and abstract ideals in order to explain how and why the natural world and the human social order function in the ways that they do.

Orphic Hymn #6: To the Stars

With holy voice I call the stars on high,

Pure sacred lights and genii of the sky.

Celestial stars, the progeny of Night,

In whirling circles beaming far your light,

Refulgent rays around the heavens ye throw,

Eternal fires, the source of all below.

With flames significant of Fate ye shine,

And aptly rule for men a path divine.

In seven bright zones ye run with wandering flames,

And heaven and earth compose your lucid frames:

With course unwearied, pure and fiery bright

Forever shining through the veil of Night.

Hail twinkling, joyful, ever wakeful fires!

Propitious shine on all my just desires;

These sacred rites regard with conscious rays,

And end our works devoted to your praise.

Orphic Hymn #79: To the North Wind

Boreas, whose wintry blasts, terrific, tear

The bosom of the deep surrounding air;

Cold icy power, approach, and favoring blow,

And Thrace a while desert exposed to snow:

The misty station of the air dissolve,

With pregnant clouds, whose frames in showers resolve:

Serenely temper all within the sky,

And wipe from moisture, Aether's beauteous eye.

FROM THE POEMS OF H. P. LOVECRAFT (1890-1937)

Editor’s Note: H. P. Lovecraft is regarded by literary scholars as the “Edgar Allan Poe” of the 20^th century. He was an imaginative author of “weird fiction” – a genre that combines science fiction, fantasy, and horror – and also an accomplished poet. His work has inspired, among others, the creators/writers of Babylon 5 and Doctor Who.

“Polaris” (1920)

Slumber, watcher, till the spheres,

Six and twenty thousand years

Have revolved, and I return

To the spot where now I burn.

Other stars anon shall rise

To the axis of the skies;

Stars that soothe and stars that bless

With a sweet forgetfulness:

Only when my round is o’er

Shall the past disturb thy door.

Until next time – be sure to go outside or look out your favorite window on a winter evening, and enjoy the view!

Rob

Happy 211th Birthday, Father Abraham!

Hello everyone –

In this edition of Quotemail, we remember the 211th birthday of Abraham Lincoln on February 12th. President Lincoln is widely considered to be one of the “Founding Fathers” of the University of Illinois, which is celebrating its 153^rd birthday this year. Here are some favorite quotations about Father Abraham to commemorate his life and legacy.

“WE ARE COMING, FATHER ABRAHAM”

Words by James Sloan Gibbons

Music by L. O. Emerson

1. We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more,

From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore.

We leave our plows and workshops, our wives and children dear,

With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear.

We dare not look behind us but steadfastly before.

We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more!

CHORUS:

We are coming, we are coming our Union to restore,

We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more!

2. If you look across the hilltops that meet the northern sky,

Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;

And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,

And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride;

And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour,

We are coming, father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

CHORUS

3. If you look up all our valleys where the growing harvests shine,

You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;

And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds ,

And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs;

And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door,

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

CHORUS

4. You have called us, and we're coming by Richmond's bloody tide,

To lay us down for freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside;

Or from foul treason's savage group, to wrench the murderous blade;

And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.

Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before,

We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more!

CHORUS

Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) on Abraham Lincoln

Printed in the New York World – 1909

“Of all the great national heroes and statesmen of history Lincoln is the only real giant. Alexander, Frederick the Great, Caesar, Napoleon, Gladstone and even Washington stand in greatness of character, in depth of feeling and in a certain moral power far behind Lincoln. Lincoln was a man of whom a nation has a right to be proud; he was a Christ in miniature, a saint of humanity, whose name will live thousands of years in the legends of future generations. We are still too near to his greatness, and so can hardly appreciate his divine power; but after a few centuries more our posterity will find him considerably bigger than we do. His genius is still too strong and too powerful for the common understanding, just as the sun is too hot when its light beams directly on us.”

“Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight” (1914)

By Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931)

It is portentous, and a thing of state

That here at midnight, in our little town

A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,

Near the old court-house pacing up and down,

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards

He lingers where his children used to play,

Or through the market, on the well-worn stones

He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,

A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl

Make him the quaint great figure that men love,

The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.

He is among us: — as in times before!

And we who toss and lie awake for long

Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.

Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?

Too many peasants fight, they know not why,

Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.

He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.

He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now

The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn

Shall come; — the shining hope of Europe free:

The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth,

Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,

That all his hours of travail here for men

Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace

That he may sleep upon his hill again?

“Lincoln” by Vachel Lindsay

Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,

That which is gendered in the wilderness

From lonely prairies and God’s tenderness.

Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,

Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,

Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,

Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire —

Fire that freed the slave.

Happy Birthday, Father Abraham! J

Rob

Happy Lunar New Year 4718 on January 25th!

Hello everyone –

Tomorrow – Saturday, January 25^th – marks the beginning of the Lunar New Year in the traditional Chinese calendar. The New Year (or Spring Festival) usually occurs on the second New Moon after the Winter Solstice (December 21 or 22). This weekend, the Year of the Rat will begin as the Chinese calendar year 4718 dawns in East Asia and around the globe.

To celebrate the Lunar New Year, I have selected two poems for you to enjoy. “Ring Out, Wild Bells” is a New Year poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and “Kubla Khan” (by Samuel Taylor Coleridge) celebrates the splendor of medieval China under the aegis of Kublai Khan (reigned 1260-1294), the grandson of Genghis Khan.

“Ring Out, Wild Bells” (1850)

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light;

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more,

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out thy mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

“Kubla Khan” a/k/a “Xanadu” (1816)

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As ever beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her daemon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced;

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me,

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight ‘twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Happy Lunar New Year to one and all!

Rob J

New Year, New Future -- Reflections from Tennyson

Hello everyone –

With the start of the (Gregorian calendar’s) New Year 2020, many of us will be making resolutions to improve our lives (and the lives of others), all the while wondering what the future might hold for us. I don’t have a Stargate or a crystal ball to tell you what lies ahead on the road of life, but I can hold up for you the Mirror of Poetry, which has served as a wellspring of inspiration for humanity since prehistoric times.

Here are some reflections about the future from Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), my favorite English poet of the Victorian Era. Tennyson, who served as Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom for most of Queen Victoria’s long reign (1837-1901), penned some of the most memorable verses in the English language, and many of his quotations have become proverbial. Gathered here are some of my favorite passages from Tennyson’s greatest poems, dealing with the future of the human race as he foresaw it during the 19^th century.

From “Locksley Hall” (Excerpt)

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,

Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sublime

With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time;

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;

When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed:

For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;
Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,
Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales;
Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;
Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm;
Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags were furled
In the Parliament of Man, the Federation of the World.
There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,
And the kindly Earth shall slumber, lapped in universal law.

From “Locksley Hall Sixty Years After” (Excerpts)

Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a single tongue,

I have seen her far away -- for is not Earth as yet so young? --

Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion killed,

Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert tilled,

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles,

Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles.

*                                           *                                             *

What are men that He should heed us? cried the king of sacred song;

Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother insect wrong,

While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along their fiery way,

All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a day.

Many an Aeon molded Earth before her highest, man, was born,

Many an Aeon too may pass when Earth is manless and forlorn,

Earth so huge, and yet so bounded -- pools of salt, and plots of land --

Shallow skin of green and azure -- chains of mountain, grains of sand!

Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier by and by,

Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within the human eye,

Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' the human soul;

Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless outward, in the Whole.

*                                           *                                             *

Follow you the Star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine.

Forward, till you see the highest Human Nature is divine.

Follow Light, and do the Right -- for man can half-control his doom --

Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb.

Forward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle with the Past.

I that loathed, have come to love him. Love will conquer at the last.

Addendum: Here is another poem by Tennyson, which I dedicate to Dr. Wayne Banwart (1948-2019), a longtime friend, mentor, and role model, who passed away on December 13^th. Requiescat in pace.

“Crossing the Bar” (Complete)

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

“Post tenebras, lux.” (Latin) = “After darkness, there is light.”

-- Official Motto of Canton Geneva, Switzerland

“A good head and a good heart are always a formidable combination.”

-- Nelson Mandela (1918-2013): Long Walk to Freedom (1995)

Until next time –

Rob

Santa & the Solstice

Hello everyone –

In the final installment of my annual hollydaze Quotemail series, I have two poems to share about the Winter Solstice (coming up tomorrow night), along with some brief reflections about the Yuletide gift-giver who is most familiar in North America – Santa Claus. Despite the misappropriation of this beloved figure by commercial interests each December, Santa’s core message remains the same from one generation to the next, and it’s a message that isn’t limited to a single holiday or religion or culture or nation. Here’s how Fred Astaire summarized the message of Santa Claus in the closing narration of the classic Rankin-Bass holiday special, Santa Claus Is Coming to Town (1970):

“But what would happen if we all tried to be like Santa and learned to give, as only he can give: of ourselves, our talents, our love and our hearts? Maybe we could all learn Santa’s beautiful lesson, and maybe there would finally be peace on Earth and good will toward men.”

Selections from My Remarks at the ACES Honors Symposium

Friday, April 13^th, 2007

[Editor’s Note: Here are some of my own reflections on the message of Santa Claus – a message for all people, all over the world, especially for children, their families, and their caregivers.]

        In L. Frank Baum’s classic holiday tale, The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus (1902), we meet a young man named Claus, a human foundling raised by the immortal denizens of an enchanted forest. In his young manhood, he chose to dwell among mortal humans because he wanted to share the joys of his own happy childhood with the children of humankind. At first he simply played, sang, and shared stories with the children who lived near his home in the Laughing Valley of Hohaho, but afterward, he “invented” the first toys and spread the joy of giving Yuletide gifts around the world. Claus obtained endless life within the circles of the world, when the immortals who had raised him endowed him with the Mantle of Immortality. They gave Claus such a momentous gift because Claus had seen that the lives of mortal children in that long-ago time were filled with drudgery and misery, and he had determined to correct this injustice by sharing with them the fruits of his experience – namely, that a happy childhood, filled with kindness and giving, could lay the foundation for a better world when the children grew up.

        Baum summarizes so eloquently the lessons to be drawn from his mythical biography of Santa Claus that they require no further comment on my part. He writes:

·         Everything perishes except the world itself and its keepers. But while life lasts, everything on Earth has its use. The wise seek ways to be helpful to the world, for the helpful ones are sure to live again. … Yet every man has his mission, which is to leave the world better, in some way, than he found it. (Book I, Chapters 6 & 7)

·         [Santa Claus] brought toys to the children because they were little and helpless, and because he loved them. He knew that the best of children were sometimes naughty, and that the naughty ones were often good. It is the way with children, the world over, and he would not have changed their natures had he possessed the power to do so.  And that is how our Claus became Santa Claus. It is possible for any man, by good deeds, to enshrine himself as a Saint in the hearts of the people.  (Book II, Chapter 9)

·         It is true that great warriors and mighty kings and clever scholars of that day were often spoken of by the people; but no one of them was so greatly beloved as Santa Claus, because none other was so unselfish as to devote himself to making others happy. For a generous deed lives longer than a great battle or a king's decree or a scholar's essay, because it spreads and leaves its mark on all nature and endures through many generations. (Book II, Chapter 11)

·         “In all this world there is nothing so beautiful as a happy child,” says good old Santa Claus; and if he had his way, the children would all be beautiful, for all would be happy. (Book III, Chapter 3)

The Winter Solstice arrives at 10:19 PM (CST) on Saturday, December 21^st – the shortest day and longest night of the year. It marks the beginning of winter in the Northern Hemisphere and the slow-but-sure return of the light; in the coming weeks, we’ll start to notice the days getting longer and the nights getting shorter. This is definitely something to celebrate – with poetry! J

“Up and Down”

By George MacDonald (1824-1905)

Excerpted from At the Back of the North Wind (1871) – Chapter 37

The Sun is gone down, and the Moon’s in the sky;

But the Sun will come up, and the Moon be laid by.

The flower is asleep, but it is not dead;

When the morning shines, it will lift its head.

When winter comes, it will die – no, no;

It will only hide from the frost and the snow.

Sure is the summer, sure is the Sun;

The night and the winter are shadows that run.

“Welcome to the Sun”

Anonymous – Collected in Scotland (19th Century)

Editor’s Note: In the Germanic, Keltik, and Slavic languages – as well as in Japanese – the Sun is feminine and the Moon is masculine.

Welcome to you, Sun of the seasons’ turning,

In your circuit of the high heavens;

Strong are your steps on the unfurled heights,

Glad Mother are you to the constellations.

You sink down into the ocean of want,

Without defeat, without scathe;

You rise up on the peaceful wave

Like a Queen in her maidenhood's flower.

Quotemail will resume its fortnightly publication schedule on Friday, January 3^rd, 2020.

In the meantime, may the calendar keep bringing Happy Hollydaze to you! J

Rob

Some Angelic Poems & Reflections

Hello everyone –

As the holiday season begins, pictures and stories about angels are everywhere. Various types of angels, some named, and others unnamed, are present in all the major spiritual traditions of the world, and their depictions can provide comfort, hope, and inspiration during challenging times. Here are three of my favorite poems about angels, all of which draw on Middle Eastern traditions about these amazing denizens of the unseen realms.

Abou Ben Adhem

By Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)

[Editor’s Note: Abou Ben Adhem (a/k/a Ibrahim ibn Adham, ca. 718-782 CE) was an early Muslim saint. You can learn more about his life and legacy @ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ibrahim_ibn_Adham.]

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold: —

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

“What writest thou?” — The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”

“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

*              *              *

Azraël

By Robert Gilbert Welsh

[Editor’s Note: Azraël is the proper name given to the Angel of Death in Jewish, Islamic, and Sikh traditions. This angel also appears in George MacDonald’s classic children’s novel, At the Back of the North Wind (1871). You can learn more about Azraël @ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Azrael.]

The angels in high places
Who minister to us,
Reflect God's smile, -- their faces
Are luminous;
Save one, whose face is hidden,
(The Prophet saith),
The unwelcome, the unbidden,
Azraël, Angel of Death.

And yet that veiled face, I know
Is lit with pitying eyes,
Like those faint stars, the first to glow
Through cloudy winter skies.

That they may never tire,
Angels, by God’s decree,
Bear wings of snow and fire, --
Passion and purity;
Save one, all unavailing,
(The Prophet saith),
His wings are gray and trailing,
Azraël, Angel of Death.

And yet the souls that Azraël brings
Across the dark and cold,
Look up beneath those folded wings,
And find them lined with gold.

*              *              *

Israfel

By Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

“And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.”

[Editor’s Note: In Islamic lore, it is said that the Archangel Israfel will blow the Last Trumpet at the consummation of human history. This angel is known as Uriel in Jewish and Christian traditions. You can learn more about Israfel/Uriel @ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israfil & https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uriel.]

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell

“Whose heart-strings are a lute”;

None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell),

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamored moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which were seven,)

Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)

That Israfeli’s fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings —

The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty,

Where Love’s a grown-up God,

Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

Therefore, thou art not wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassioned song;

To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest!

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit —

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervor of thy lute —

Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours;

Our flowers are merely — flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.

Some Concluding Thoughts:

Although angels are depicted in various and sundry ways throughout the world’s spiritual traditions, it is noteworthy that many angels are depicted in very similar ways across cultures and religions. Studying comparative angelology can help us to understand how our worldwide spiritual traditions are interrelated in fascinating and surprising ways and equip us to build bridges of mutual respect and appreciation with our neighbors both far and near.

Next week, a special edition of Quotemail will celebrate the Winter Solstice and everyone’s favorite Yuletide gift-giver – stay tuned!

Until next time, may the calendar keep bringing Happy Holidays to you!

Rob J