(1)Wandered malignant o'er the erring earth.
This passage and, indeed the whole poem, is founded on a belief, prevalent in the earlier ages of christianity, that all nations, except the descendents of Abraham, were abandoned by the Almighty, and subjected to the power of daemons or evil spirits. Fontenelle in his"Histoire des Oracles"makes the following extract from the works of the Pagan philosopher Porphyry.
"Auguste deja vieux and songeant a se choisir un successeur, alla consulter l'oracle de Delphes. L'oracle ne repondoit point, quiqu 'Auguste n'epargnat pas de sacrifices. A la fin, cependant, il en tira cette reponse. L'enfant Hebreu a qui tous les Dieux obeissent, me chasse d'ici, and me ronvoie dans les Enfers. Sors de ce temple sans parler."
(2)While friendly shades the sacred rites enshroud.
The captive Jews, though they sometimes outwardly conformed to the religion of their oppressors, were accustomed to practice their own in secret.
(3)When fiercer spirits howled, he but complained.
So Milton. Others more mild retreated to a silent valley singing,With notes angelical, to many a harp,Their own heroic deeds and hapless fall.
(4)Weary he fainted thro' the toilsome hours,And then his mystic nature he sustainedOn steam of sacrifices, breath of flowers.
Eusebe dans sa "Preparation Evangelique" raporte quantite de passages de Porphyre, ou ce philosophe Payen assure que les mauvais demons sont les auteurs des enchantemens, des philtres, et des malefices; que le mensonge est essentiel a leur nature; qu'ils ne font que tromper nos yeux par des spectres et par des fautomes; qu'ils excitent en nous la plupart de nos passions; qu'ils ont l'ambition de vouloir passer pour des dieux; que leurs corpsaeriens se nourissentdefumigations de sand repandu et de la graisse des sacrifices;qu'il n'y a qu'eux qui se melent de rendre des oracles, et a qui cette fonction pleine de tromperic soit tombee en partage.
Fontenelle, Historie des Oracles.
Still trueTo one dear theme, my full soul flowing o'erWould find no room for thought of what it knew(5) Nor picturing forfeit transport curse me more.
Si l'homme (says a modern writer) constant dans ses affections, pouvoit saus cesse fournir a un sentiment renouvele sans cesse, sans doute la solitude and l'amour l'egaleroient a Dieu meme; car ce sont la les deux eternel plaisirs du gran Etre.
A celebrated female, (Saint Theresa) used to describe Satan as an unhappy being, who never could know what it was to love.
(6)And o'er her sense as when the fond night birdWoos the full rose o'erpowering fragrance stole.
This allusion must be familiar to every general reader of poetry.
"The nightingale if he sees the rose becomes intoxicated; he letsgo from his hand the reins prudence."Fable of the Gardener and Nightingale.
Lady Montague also translates a song, if my memory does not deceive me, thus,
"The nightingale now hovers amid the flowers, her passion is toseek roses."
And from the poet Hafiz,
"When the roses wither and the bower loses its sweetness, you have no longer the tale of the nightingale."
Indeed the rose, in Oriental poetry, is seldom mentioned without her paramour the nightingale, which gives reason to suppose that this bird, in those countries where it was first celebrated, had really some natural fondness for the rose; or perhaps for some insect which took shelter in it. In Sir W. Jones' translation of the Persian fable, of "The Gardener and Nightingale" we meet with the following distich.
_"I know not what the rose says under his lips, that he brings back the helpless Nightingales with their mournful notes.
One day the Gardener, according to his established custom, went to view the roses; he saw a plaintive nightingale rubbing his head on the leaves of the roses and tearing asunder, with his sharp bill, that volume adorned with gold."_
And Gelaleddin Ruzbehar,
"While the nightingale sings thy praises with a loud voice, I am all ear like the stalk of the rosetree."
Pliny, however, in his delightful description of this bird, says nothing, I believe, about the rose.
(7) Les Perses semblent etre les premiers hommes connus de nous qui parlerent des anges comme d'huissiers celestes, et de porteurs d'ordres.
Voltaire, Essai sur les moeurs et l'esprit des nations.
In composing this ode, which was done four years ago, the writer had not the most remote idea, of complimenting any one. Without the slightest pretensions to "connoiseurship" she has only described the absolute effect of the pictures alluded to, on an individual, and would only be considered in the light of an insent warming itself in the sun, and grateful for his pervasive influence.
Thou who wert born of Psyche and of LoveAnd fondly nurst on Poesy's warm breastPainting, oh, power adored!My country's sons have pouredTo thee their orisons; and thou hast blestTheir votive sighs, nor vainly have they strove.
Thou who art wont to soothe the varied painThat ceaseless throbs at absent lover's heart,Who first bestowed thine aidOn the young Rhodian maid [FN#19]When doomed, from him whose love was life, to part,From a lone bard accept an humble heartfelt strain.
[FN#19] I do not positively recollect whether the incident, here described is supposed to have transpired at Rhodes, Corinth, or some other place, and have not, at present, the means for ascertaining. Painting is called the Rhodian Art, but I know not if on account of its having been first invented there or for the eminence of the painters which Rhodes produced; which was so great that an illustrious enemy refrained from burning the city, which he had in his power, out of respect to the genius of Protogenes one of its most celebrated artists.
'Twas the last night the idol youth might stay—E'en now, to bear him from the rosy isle, [FN#20]The galley waits: he sleepsShe silent wakes and weeps—Watches his lips that in light dreaming smile—Twines her soul round his charms and dreads the coming day.
The dazzling drops her pitious eyes that blindHushing her struggling sobs she wiped away:—Her tapers paly lightFell on the marble white,Beside the couch where half reclined he layAnd of his beauteous face the shadow well defined.
Loved deity, then first thou cam'st on earth!—Pity for truth in sorrow, called thee here!Sudden the fair, inspired,With a new thought was firedHer hand urged on by hope—yet, breathing not for fear—She traced the unreal shade—'twas hers—an art had birth.
[FN#20] Rhodes, in the Greek tongue, signifiesroseor roses. After being made the scene of the loves of Venus and Apollo, the isle (says Demoustier) became an enchanting garden, and soon took the name of the flowers it produced.
By dearest, tenderest feelings still allured,Thou sought'st our wilds far blooming o'er the deepPleased with the soft employA fair haired cherub boyO'er a more helpless child his watch to keepWas placed; and from his sports the long restraint endured.
Fair as the hues of heaven, the innocentLay like a phantom born of some mild soul;A drop, for it had weptA moment ere it slept,O'er its light vermil cheek was seen to rollAnd its young guardian's heart drank beauty as he leant.
That nameless wish to nought but genius known.—Indefinite—but in each fibre felt,Whispered. The boy elateBurned to perpetuateThe full pervasive bliss; enrapt he knelt—Thou saw'st—a pencil's by—and infant West's thine own.
Soon the plumed savage, from his leafy homeEmerging, saw and loved the gifted child,And soon, beneath their care,His hands the tints prepare,That strain their shapely limbs, in grandeur wildAs thro' their arching woods, the desert warriors roam. [FN#21]
[FN#21] Sir Benjamin West, when a child, was presented with the primitive colours by an Indian. See Galt's Life of West.
Please he repaid their plans, nor those alone;Sped by his strength the painted arrow flew;And oft the soaring birdFor shape, or hue preferred,To make a model for his art he knewWhile sovereign Nature saw—and smiled upon her throne.
Bold Science, who earth's caverned depths explores,And soars triumphant 'mid new worlds of light,—Lays bare the heaving heart [FN#22]Nor suffers life to part—Lures the red lightning from its stormy height—Oft, goddess kneels to thee to save his precious stores.
[FN#22] An operation was performed at Paris by M. Richerande in which the heart of a patient, who afterwards recovered, was laid bare.
The rough-browed warrior on the midnight deckWhile stealing softness thro' his pulses glides,By the moon's pensive raysRegards with lengthened gaze,The pictured form his scarry bosom hidesBy day; that tho' death grasp, hangs smiling at his neck.
When fate has torn from the fond mother's armsThe tender hope her bosom fed, to theeShe flies;—and ere decayCan mar his beauteous preyHer arching eyes, amid their grief, can see,Still dawning bright, to them, its early-blighted charms.
The generous youth who, fired by love of fame,A victim at her bloody altars fell;To the beloved ones reft,By aid of thee, has leftHis form, his lip, his ardent glance, to tellHow fair was he on earth who left it for a name.
The patriot—here a moment let my strainTremble before thy Stuart—who but heCould bid mild Washington—His god-loved labours done—Thus sit before us breathing majesty,And, in his deep blue eye, still life and soul retain?
Methinks, the while I gaze, each graceful lineSo light imprinted on his forehead fair,Where Wisdom sits sereneOf every sense the queen,Seems as an embryo empire still were there,While still his ample breast swells with the vast design.
And fondly o'er the mellow tints I pauseOf her, whose vivid touch shames not her sire;Bold Genius in his prideHas marked her as his bride,On his bright pinions bids her soul aspire,Nor pay the tribute due by tardier Nature's laws. [FN#23]
[FN#23] While composing this ode the writer was shown a beautiful specimen from the hand of a young daughter of the celebrated Stuart, who entirely devoted herself to the art.
But guard thee well young J—e: in his embraceHow many seal with death their ectasy!Too deep, intense, and wild,For one so late a child,I fear me lest the proffered transport beThat every earthlier joy absorbent would efface.
Soft is thy form—amid the unpent air,Pay rosy exercise her just demands:Tho' heaven thy lone hours wooEarth still demands her due;Gay health to guard e'en genius' palace stands—And when she takes her flight—e'en genius, must despair.
Nor those alone doomed to incarnate birthPainting, death-baffler, is it thine to save!The heavenly shapes that flit,When the entranced fit,Is on, and the charmed soul forgets its earth,Thou bidst to earthly eyes their sky-dipt vestments wave.
The radiant visions Fancy's wand uprearsWhen Poesy around has spread her spell,Like summer flowrets diesRefresh the enchanted skies,Where, soft as air, and lovelier for her fears,Bright in her golden robes flies fair-haired Florimell. [FN#24]
[FN#24] The flight of Florimell, from a scene in Spencer's Faery Queen, is an exquisite little picture by Allston, in the possession of a private gentleman.
The miracles, in holy record kept,Done—ere one cheering ray of distant lightThro' death's dark portals shown,At thy command alone,Still, still—reacted meet—the astonished sight,Tho' rolling ages o'er the scene have swept.
In this far distant land, which the great deepPerchance embosomed, when that dust was rife,The pale unconscious deadOn the strown relics laidOf old Elisha, in his passing sleep,Still, at the hallowed touch, starts back to warmth and life. [FN#25]
[FN#25] Every one must recollect the sublime picture here alluded to.
Sweet, when the soul is weary of the illsThat stern reality presents, to dwellOn beauteous forms: they smoothThe ruffled sense, and soothThe heart with soft perfection; till a spellBlends with its troublous pulse, and all its achings stills.
And who can look nor own the pencil's powerWhere tender Ariadne, happy yet, [FN#26]Lies in a dream of bliss?The last half-pitying kiss,By falsehood given, her sleeping lip has met—That still seems hovering there like Zephyr o'er a flower.
[FN#26] Vanderlyn's Ariadne.
The dawn breaks slowly o'er the distant main,To come no more her ingrate hero flies;While thoughts confiding speakUpon her mantling cheek—Illusion chains the sense—in lowest sighsWhispering—we fear to see her wake to pain.
But whither wandering? whatsoe'er has gainedLong conning book and heart the white-haired sage;Cause and remote effectIn living semblance dect,The truths divine of many a moral pageThy hand, harmonious Peale, hath at a glance explained.
To meet a friendship such as mineSuch feelings must thy heart refineAs seldom mortal mind gives birth,'Tis love, without a stain of earth,Fratello del mio cor.
Tho' friendship be its earthly nameAll pure, from highest heaven, it came'Tis never felt for more than one,And scorns to dwell with Venus' sonFratello del mio cor.
Him let it view not, or it fliesLike tender hues of morning-skies,Or morn's sweet flower, of purple glow.When sunny beams too ardent growFratello del mio cor.
It's food is looks, its nectar, sighs,Its couch the lip, its throne the eyesThe soul its breath; and so possest,Heaven's raptures reign in mortal breast.Fratello del mio cor.
Thy home seemed not of earth—so blest—But there has fall'n a shaft of fate—The dove is stricken; and the nestShe warmed and cheered is desolate.
But fairest not for thee, we mourn:Blest from thy birth, thou still art so—The tear must dew thine early urnFor him whom thou hast taught to know
The zest of joys—complete, as knowsThy vital flame, the pang that tostAnd changed thee past, where now it glows—Knowing, yet feeling all is lost.
There is a flower of tender whiteAnd, on its spotless bosom, playThe moon's soft beams, one lovely night;But when appears the morning ray
'Tis shut and withered—even nowAround your lime I see it wave; [FN#27]'Tis pure, and fresh, and fair, as thou—And sinks in beauty to its grave.
[FN#27] The white convolvulus; it blossoms just after sun-set, and is seen in great abundance entwining the lime-hedges, about the plantations of Cuba.