Aye; but such pious, lovely, sweet, illusions.
Yes: and the one, her bosom Clings to most fondly, is, that the brave templar Was but a transient inmate of the earth, A guardian angel, such as from her childhood She loved to fancy kindly hovering round her, Who from his veiling cloud amid the fire Stepped forth in her preserver’s form. You smile— Who knows? At least beware of banishing So pleasing an illusion—if deceitful Christian, Jew, Mussulman, agree to own it, And ’tis—at least to her—a dear illusion.
Also to me. Go, my good Daya, go, See what she’s after. Can’t I speak with her? Then I’ll find out our untamed guardian angel, Bring him to sojourn here awhile among us— We’ll pinion his wild wing, when once he’s taken.
And when, my Daya, This sweet illusion yields to sweeter truth, (For to a man a man is ever dearer Than any angel) you must not be angry To see our loved enthusiast exercised.
You are so good—and yet so sly. I’ll seek her, But listen,—yes! she’s coming of herself.
And you are here, your very self, my father, I thought you’d only sent your voice before you. Where are you then? What mountains, deserts, torrents, Divide us now? You see me, face to face, And do not hasten to embrace your Recha. Poor Recha! she was almost burnt alive, But only—only—almost. Do not shudder! O ’tis a horrid end to die in fire!
You had to cross The Jordan, Tigris, and Euphrates, and Who knows what rivers else. I used to tremble And quake for you, till the fire came so nigh me; Since then, methinks ’twere comfort, balm, refreshment, To die by water. But you are not drowned— I am not burnt alive.—We will rejoice— We will praise God—the kind good God, who bore thee, Upon the buoyant wings of _unseen_ angels, Across the treacherous stream—the God who bade My angel _visibly_ on his white wing Athwart the roaring flame—
White wing?—oh, aye The broad white fluttering mantle of the templar.
Yes, visibly he bore me through the fire, O’ershadowed by his pinions.—Face to face I’ve seen an angel, father, my own angel.
Recha deserves it, and would see in him No fairer form than he beheld in her,
Whom are you flattering, father—tell me now— The angel, or yourself?
Yet had a man, A man of those whom Nature daily fashions, Done you this service, he to you had seemed, Had been an angel.