The Project Gutenberg eBook ofZophielThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: ZophielA poemAuthor: Maria Gowen BrooksRelease date: July 2, 2006 [eBook #18739]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced using page scans from The University of Michigan's Making of America online book collection (http://www.hti.umich.edu/m/moa/)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ZOPHIEL ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: ZophielA poemAuthor: Maria Gowen BrooksRelease date: July 2, 2006 [eBook #18739]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced using page scans from The University of Michigan's Making of America online book collection (http://www.hti.umich.edu/m/moa/)
Title: Zophiel
A poem
Author: Maria Gowen Brooks
Author: Maria Gowen Brooks
Release date: July 2, 2006 [eBook #18739]
Language: English
Credits: Produced using page scans from The University of Michigan's Making of America online book collection (http://www.hti.umich.edu/m/moa/)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ZOPHIEL ***
Produced using page scans from The University of
Michigan's Making of America online book collection (http://www.hti.umich.edu/m/moa/)
A Poem,
By Mrs. Brooks.
——————Forse la sorteF. stanca di me tormentar—Metastasio.
Boston:
Published by Richardson & Lord.
* * *
J. H. A. Frost, Printer.
1825.
DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit:District Clerk's Office.
Be it remembered, that on the twelfth day of August, A. D. 1825, in the fiftieth year of the Independence of the United States of America,Richardson & Lord,of the said District, have deposited in this office the Title of a Book, the right whereof they claim as Proprietors, in the words following,to wit:
Zophiel, a Poem, by Mrs. Brooks.—————Forse la sorteE stanca di me tormentar.—Metastasio.
In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled, "An Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the Copies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of such Copies, during the times therein mentioned:" and also to an Act, entitled, "An Act supplementary to an Act, entitled, An Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the Copies of Maps, Charts and Books to the Authors and Proprietors of such Copies during the times therein mentioned; and extending the benefits thereof to the Arts of Designing, Engraving and Etching Historical and other Prints."
JOHN W. DAVIS,Clerk of the District of Massachusetts.
Wishing to make a continued effort, in an art which, though almost in secret, has been adored and assiduously cultivated from earliest infancy, it was my intention to have chosen some incident from Pagan history, as the foundation of my contemplated poem. But, looking over the Jewish annals, I was induced to select for my purpose, one of their well-known stories which besides its extreme beauty, seemed to open an extensive field for the imagination which might therein avail itself not only of important and elevated truths but pleasing and popular superstitions.
Having finished one Canto I left the United States for the West Indies in the hope of being able to sail thence for Great Britain, where I might submit what I had done to the candour of some able writer; publish it, if thought expedient; and obtain advice and materials for the improvement and prosecution of my work. But as events have transpired to frustrate that intention I have endeavored to make it as perfect, as with the means I have access to, is possible.
It is, now, far beneath what might have been done, under the influence of more decided hopes and more auspicious circumstances. Yet, as it is, I am induced to place it before the public, with that anxiety which naturally attends the doubtful accomplishment of any favourite object, on the principle that no artist can make the same improvement, or labour with so much pleasure to himself, in private, as when comparing his efforts with those of others, and listening to the opinions of critics and the remarks of connoisseurs. The beauty, though she may view herself, in her mirror, from the ringlets of her hair to the sole of her slipper, and appear most lovely to her own gaze, can never be certain of her power to please until the suffrage of society confirm the opinion formed in seclusion; and "Qu'est ce que la beaute s'elle ne touche pas?"
Literary employments are necessary to the happiness and almost to the vitality of those who pursue them with much ardour; and though the votaries of the muses are, too often, debased by faults, yet, abstractedly considered, a taste for any art, if well directed, must seem a preservative not only against melancholy, but even against misery and vice.
Genius, whatever its bent, supposes a refined and delicate moral sense and though sometimes perverted by sophistry or circumstance, and sometimes failing through weakness; can always, at least, comprehend and feel, the grandeur of honour and the beauty of virtue.
As to the faults of those to whom the world allows the possession of genius, there are, perhaps, good grounds for the belief that they have actually fewer than those employed about ordinary affairs; but the last are easily concealed and the first carefully dragged to light.
The miseries too, sometimes attendant to persons of distinguished literary attainments, are often held forth as a subject of "warn and scare" but Cervantes and Camoens would both have been cast into prison even though unable to read or write, and Savage, though a mechanic or scrivener, would probably have possessed the same failings and consequently have fallen into the same, or a greater degree of poverty and suffering. Alas! how many, in the flower of youth and strength, perish in the loathsome dungeons of this island, and, when dead, are refused a decent grave; who, in many instances, were their histories traced by an able pen would be wept by half the civilized world.
Although I can boast nothing but an extreme and unquenchable love for the art to which my humble aspirations are confined, my lyre has been a solace when every thing else has failed; soothing when agitated, and when at peace furnishing that exercise and excitement without which the mind becomes sick, and all her faculties retrograde when they ought to be advancing. Men, when they feel that nature has kindled in their bosoms a flame which must incessantly be fed, can cultivate eloquence and exert it, in aid of the unfortunate before the judgment seats of their country; or endeavour to "lure to the skies" such as enter the temples of their god; but woman, alike subject to trials and vicissitudes and endowed with the same wishes, (for the observation, "there is no sex to soul," is certainly not untrue,) condemned, perhaps, to a succession of arduous though minute duties in which, oftentimes, there is nothing to charm and little to distract, unless she be allowed the exercise of her pen must fall into melancholy and despair, and perish, (to use the language of Mad. de Stael,) "consumed by her own energies."
Thus do we endeavour to excuse any inordinate or extreme attachment by labouring to show in their highest colours the merits of its object.
Zophiel may or may not be called entirely a creature of imagination, as comports with the faith of the reader; he is not, however, endowed with a single miraculous attribute; for which the general belief of ages, even among christians, may not be produced as authority.
The stanza in which his story is told though less complicate and beautiful than the Spencerian, is equally ancient; and favorable to a pensive melody, is also susceptible of much variety.
The marginal notes will be useless to such as have read much.
San Patricio, Island of Cuba, March 30, 1825.
Thou with the dark blue eye upturned to heaven,And cheek now pale, now warm with radiant glow,Daughter of God,—most dear,—Come with thy quivering tear,And tresses wild, and robes of loosened flow,—To thy lone votaress let one look be given!
Come Poesy! nor like some just-formed maid,With heart as yet unswoln by bliss or woe;—But of such age be seenAs Egypt's glowing queen,When her brave Roman learned to love her soThat death and loss of fame, were, by a smile, repaid.
Or as thy Sappho, when too fierce assailedBy stern ingratitude her tender breast:—Her love by scorn repaidHer friendship true betrayed,Sick of the guileful earth, she sank for restIn the cold waves embrace; while Grecian muse bewailed.
Be to my mortal eye, like some fair dame—Ripe, but untouched by time; whose frequent blushPlays o'er her cheek of truthAs soft as earliest youth;While thoughts exalted to her mild eye rush—And the expanded soul, tells 'twas from heaven it came.
Daughter of life's first cause; who, when he sawThe ills that unborn innocents must bear,When doomed to come to earth—Bethought—and gave thee birthTo charm the poison from affliction there;And from his source eternal, bade thee draw.
He gave thee power, inferior to his ownBut in control o'er matter. 'Mid the crashOf earthquake, war, and storm,Is seen thy radiant formThou com'st at midnight on the lightning's flash,And ope'st to those thou lov'st new scenes and worlds unknown.
And still, as wild barbarians fiercely breakThe graceful column and the marble dome—Where arts too long have lainDebased at pleasure's fain,And bleeding justice called on wrath to come,'Mid ruins heaped around, thou bidst thy votarists wake.
Methinks I see thee on the broken shrineOf some fall'n temple—where the grass waves highWith many a flowret wild;While some lone, pensive, childLooks on the sculpture with a wondering eyeWhose kindling fires betray that he is chosen thine. [FN#1]
[FN#1] Genius, perhaps, has often, nay generally, been awakened and the whole future bent of the mind thus strongly operated upon, determined, by some circumstance trivial as this.
Or on some beetling cliff—where the mad wavesRush echoing thro' the high-arched caves below,I view some love-reft fairWhose sighing warms the air,Gaze anxious on the ocean as it ravesAnd call on thee-alone, of power to sooth her woe.
Friend of the wretched; smoother of the couchOf pining hope; thy pitying form I know!Where thro' the wakeful night,By a dim taper's light,Lies a pale youth, upon his pallet low,Whose wan and woe-worn charms rekindle at thy touch.
Friendless—oppressed by fate—the restless firesOf his thralled soul prey on his beauteous frame—Till, strengthened by thine aid,He shapes some kindred maid,Pours forth in song the life consuming flame,And for awhile forgets his sufferings and desires.
Scorner of thoughtless grandeur, thou hast choseThybest-belovedfrom ruddy Nature's breast:The grotto dark and rude—The forest solitude—The craggy mount by blushing clouds carest—Have altars where thy light etherial glows. [FN#2]
[FN#2] Every nation, however rude, has, as it has been justly observed, a taste for poetry. This art after all that has and can be said for and against it, is the language of nature, and among the relics of the most polished and learned nations little has survived except such as simply depicts those natural feelings and images which have ever existed and ever must continue. Most of the great poets have been individuals of humble condition rising from the mass of the people by that natural principle which causes the most etherial particles to rise and the denser to sink to the earth. But, as Byron exquisitely says, in one of the most wonderfully beautiful pages he ever composed,
"Many are poets who have never pennedTheir inspirations, and, perchance, the best;They felt, they loved, and died; but would not lendTheir thoughts to meaner beings; they comprestThe god within them, and rejoined the starsUnlaurel'd upon earth."
In the place where I now write amid several hundred Africans of different ages, and nations, the most debased of any on the face of the earth, I have been enabled to observe, even in this, last link of the chain of humanity, the strong natural love for music and poetry.
Any little incident which occurs on the estate where they toil, and which the greater part of them are never suffered to leave, is immediately made the subject of a rude song which they, in their broken Spanish, sing to their companions; and thereby relieve a little the monotony of their lives.
I have observed these poor creatures, under various circumstances, and though, generally, extremely brutal, have, in some instances, heard touches of sentiment from them, when under the influence of grief, equal to any which have flowed from the pen of Rousseau.
Thy sovereign priest by earth's vile sons was drivenTo make the cold unconscious earth his bed: [FN#3]The damp cave mocked his sighs—But from his sightless eyes,Wrung forth by wrongs, the anguished drops he shed,Fell each as an appeal to summon thee from heaven.
Thou sought'st him in his desolation; placedOn thy warm bosom his unpillowed head;Bade him for visions liveMore bright than worlds can give;O'er his pale lips thy soul infusive shedThat left his dust adored where kings decay untraced.
[FN#3] "On the banks of the Meles was shown the spot where Critheis, the mother of Homer, brought him into the world, and the cavern to which he retired to compose his immortal verses. A monument erected to his memory and inscribed with his name stood in the middle of the city—it was adorned with spacious porticos under which the citizens assembled."
Source of deep feeling—of surpassing love—Creative power,—'tis thou hast peopled heavenSince man from dust aroseHis birth the cherub owes [FN#4]To thee—by thee his rapturous harp was givenAnd white wings tipp'd with gold that cool the domes above.
[FN#4] The Indians (says M. de Voltaire) from whom every species of theology is derived, invented the angels and represented them in their ancient book the "Shasta," as immortal creatures, participating in the divinity of their creator; against whom a great number revolted in heaven, "Les Parsis ignicoles, qui subsistent encore ont communique a l'auteur de la religion des anciens Perses les noms des anges que les premiers Perses reconnaissaient. On en trouve cent-dix- neuf, parmi desquels ne sont ni Raphael ni Gabriel que les Perses n'adopterent que long-tems apres. Ces mots sont Chaldeens; ils ne furent connus des Juifs que dans leur captivite."
Husher of secret sighs—from childhood's hourThe slave of Fate, I've knelt before thy throne;To thy loved courts have spedWhene'er my heart has bled,And every ray of bliss that heart has knownHas reached it thro' thy grief-dispelling power.
Fain thro' my native solitudes I'd roamBathe my rude harp in my bright native streamsTwine it with flowers that bloomBut for the deserts gloom,Or, for the long and jetty hair that gleamsO'er the dark-bosomed maid that makes the wild her home. [FN#5]
[FN#5] This invocation when composed was intended to precede a series of poems entitled Occidental Eclogues; which work the writer has never found opportunity to finish.
I sing not for the crowd, or low or high—A pensive wanderer on life's thorny heathEarth's pageants for my viewHave nought: I love but few,And few who chance to hear thy trembling breath,My lyre, for her who wakes thee, have a sigh. [FN#6]
[FN#6] It may not be improper to observe that these stanzas were composed during a period of misfortune and dejection.
Forsake me not! none ever loved thee more!Fair queen, I'll meet woe's fearfulest frown—and smile;If mid the scene severeThou'lt drop on me one tear,And let thy flitting form sometimes beguileThe present of its ills—I'll scorn them and adore.
Then warm the form relentless fate would chill—Dark lours my night—Oh! give me one embrace!If every pain I bearBefit me for thy care,Come sorrow—scorn—desertion—I can chaseDespair, fell watching for her victim still.
The time has been—this holiest records say—In punishment for crimes of mortal birth,When spirits banished from the realms of dayWandered malignant o'er the nighted earth.(1)
And from the cold and marble lips declared,Of some blind-worshipped—earth-created god,Their deep deceits; which trusting monarchs snaredFilling the air with moans, with gore the sod. [FN#7]
Yet angels doffed their robes in radiance dyed,And for a while the joys of heaven delayed,To watch benign by some just mortal's side—Or meet th' aspiring love of some high gifted maid. [FN#8]
Blest were those days!—can these dull ages boastAught to compare? tho' now no more beguile—Chain'd in their darkling depths th' infernal host—Who would not brave a fiend to share an angel's smile?
[FN#7] The god who conducted the Hebrews sent a malignant spirit to speak from the mouth of the prophets, in order to deceive king Achab.
[FN#8] It is useless to note this stanza, as two well-known poems have lately been founded on the same passage of the Pentateuch to which it alludes.
'Twas then there lived a captive Hebrew pair;In woe th' embraces of their youth had past,And blest their paler years one daughter—fairShe flourished, like a lonely rose, the last
And loveliest of her line. The tear of joy—The early love of song—the sigh that brokeFrom her young lip—the best-beloved employ—What womanhood disclosed in infancy bespoke.
A child of passion—tenderest and bestOf all that heart has inly loved and felt;Adorned the fair enclosure of her breast—Where passion is not found, no virtue ever dwelt.
Yet not, perverted, would my words implyThe impulse given by Heaven's great ArtizanAlike to man and worm—mere spring, wherebyThe distant wheels of life, while time endures, roll on—
But the collective ministry that fillAbout the soul, their all-important place—That feed her fires—empower her fainting will—And write the god on feeble mortals face.
Yet anger, or revenge, envy or hateThe damsel knew not: when her bosom burnedAnd injury darkened the decrees of fate,She had more pitious wept to see that pain returned.
Or if, perchance, tho' formed most just and pure,Amid their virtue's wild luxuriance hid,Such germ all mortal bosoms must immureWhich sometimes show their poisonous heads unbid—
If haply such the lovely Hebrew finds,Self knowledge wept th' abasing truth to know,Andinnate pride,thatqueen of noble minds,Crushed them indignant ere a bud could grow.
And such—ev'n now, in earliest youth are seen—But would they live, with armour more deform,Their love—o'erflowing breasts must learn to screen:"The bird that sweetest sings can least endure the storm."
And yet, despite of all the gushing tear—The melting tone—the darting heart-stream—proved,The soul that in them spoke, could spurn at fearOf death or danger; and had those she loved
Required it at their need, she could have stood,Unmoved, as some fair-sculptured statue, whileThe dome that guards it, earth's convulsions, rudeAre shivering—meeting ruin with a smile.
And this, at intervals in language brightTold her blue eyes; tho' oft the tender lidLike lilly drooping languidly; and whiteAnd trembling—all save love and lustre hid.
Then, as young christian bard had sung, they seemedLike some Madonna in his soul—so sainted;But opening in their energy—they beamedAs tasteful pagans their Minerva painted;
While o'er her graceful shoulders' milky swell,Like those full oft on little children seenAlmost to earth her silken ringlets fellNor owned Pactolus' sands more golden sheen.
And now, full near, the hour unwished for drewWhen fond, Sephora hoped to see her wed;And, for 'twould else expire, impatient grewTo renovate her race from beauteous Egla's bed.
None of their kindred lived to claim her handBut stranger-youths had asked her of her sireWith gifts and promise fair; he could withstandAll save her tears; and harkening her desire
Still left her free; but soon her mother drewFrom her a vow, that when the twentieth yearIts full, fair finish o'er her beauty threw,If what her fancy fed on, came not near,
She would entreat no more but to the voiceOf her light-giver hearken; and her lifeAnd love—all yielding to that kindly choiceWould hush each idle wish and learn to be a wife.
Now oft it happ'd when morning task was doneAnd for the virgins of her household madeAnd lotted each her toil; while yet the sunWas young, fair Egla to a woody shade,
Loved to retreat; there, in the fainting hourOf sultry noon the burning sunbeam fellLike a warm twilight; so bereft of power,It gained an entrance thro' the leafy bower;That scarcely shrank the tender lilly bell
Tranquil and lone in such a light to be,How sweet to sense and soul!—the form reclineForgets it ere felt pain; and reverie,Sweet mother of the muses, heart and soul are thine. [FN#9]
[FN#9] Every one talks and reads of groves, but it is impossible for those who never felt it, to conceive the effect of such a situation in a warm climate. In this island the woods which are naturally so interwoven with vines as to be impervious to a human being, are in some places, cleared and converted into nurseries for the young coffee-trees which remain sheltered from the sun and wind till sufficiently grown to transplant. To enter one of these "semilleros," as they are here called, at noon day, produces an effect like that anciently ascribed to the waters of Lethe. After sitting down upon the trunk of a fallen cedar or palm-tree, and breathing for a moment, the freshness of the air and the odour of the passion flower, which is one of the most abundant, and certainly the most beautiful of the climate; the noise of the trees, which are continually kept in motion by the trade winds; the fluttering and various notes, though not musical, of the birds; the loftiness of the green canopy, for the trunks of the trees are bare to a great height, and seem like pillars supporting the thick mass of leaves above; and the rich mellow light which the intense rays of the sun, thus impeded, produce; have altogether such an effect that one involuntarily forgets every thing but the present, and it requires a strong effort to rise and leave the place.
This calm recess on summer day she soughtAnd sat to tune her lute; but all night longQuiet had from her pillow flown, and thoughtFeverish and tired, sent for th' unseemly throng
Of boding images. She scarce could wooOne song reluctant, ere advancing quickThro' the fresh leaves Sephora's form she knewAnd duteous rose to meet; but fainting sick
Her heart sank tremulously in her; whySought out at such an hour, it half divinedAnd seated now beside, with downcast eyeAnd fevered pulse, she met the pressure, kind
And warmly given; while thus the matron fairNor yet much marr'd by time, with soothing wordsSolicitous; and gently serious airThe purpose why she hither came preferr'd:
"Egla, my hopes thou knowest—tho' exprestBut rare lest they should pain thee—I have dealtNot rudely towards thee tender; and supprestThe wish, of all, my heart has most vehement felt.
"Know I have marked, that when the reason whyThou still wouldst live in virgin state, thy sireHas prest thee to impart, quick in thine eyeSemblance of hope has played—fain to transpire
"Words seem'd to seek thy lip; but the bright rushOf heart-blood eloquent, alone would tellIn the warm language of a rebel blushWhat thy less treacherous tongue has guarded well.
"Dost waste so oft alone—the cheerful day?Or haply, rather bath some pagan youth"—She with quick burst—'whate'er has happ'd I'll say!Doubt thou my wisdom, but regard my truth!
"Long time ago, while yet a twelve years' childThese shrubs and vines, new planted, near this spot,I sat me tired with pleasant toil, and whiledAway the time with many a wishful thought
"Of desolate Judea. Every sceneWhich thou so oft, while sitting on thy knee,Wouldst sing of, weeping, thro' my mind has beenSuccessive; when from yon old mossy tree
"I heard a pitious moan. Wondering I wentAnd found a wretched man; worn and opprestHe seemed with toil and years; and whispering faintHe said "Oh little maiden, sore distrest
"I sink for very want. Give me I pray,A drop of water and a cake: I dieOf thirst and hunger, yet my sorrowing wayMay tread once more, if thou my needs supply."
"A long time missing from thy fondling arms—It chanced that day thou'dst sent me in the shadeNew bread, a cake of figs, and wine of palms [FN#10]Mingled with water, sweet with honey made.
"These did I bring—raised as I could, his head;Held to his lip the cup; and while he quaffed,Upon my garment wiped the tears that spedAdown his silvery beard and mingled with the draft.
[FN#10] "The palm is a very common plant in this country, (Assyria,) and generally fruitful; this they cultivate like fig-trees and it produces them bread, wine and honey." See Beloe's notes to his translation of Herodotus. Mr. Gibbon adds, that the diligent natives celebrated, either in verse or prose, three hundred and sixty uses to which the trunk, the branches, the leaves, the juice and the fruit of this plant were applied. Nothing can be more curious and interesting than the natural history of the palm tree.
"When gaining sudden strength, he raised his hand,And in this guise did bless me, "Mayst thou beA crown to him who weds thee.—In a landFar distant bides a captive. Hearken me
"And choose thee now a bridegroom meet: to dayO'er broad Euphrates' steepest banks a childFled from his youthful nurse's arms; in playElate, he bent him o'er the brink, and smiled
"To see their fears who followed him—but whoThe keen wild anguish of that scene can tell—He bend o'er the brink, and in their view,But ah! too far beyond their aid—he fell.
"They wailed—the long torn ringlets of their hair [FN#11]Freighted the pitying gale; deep rolled the streamAnd swallowed the fair child; no succour there—They women—whither look—who to redeem
"What the fierce waves were preying on?—when lo!Approached a stranger boy. Aside he flung,As darted thought, his quiver and his bowAnd parted by his limbs the sparkling billows sung.
[FN#11] The women, I believe, among all nations of antiquity were accustomed to express violent grief by tearing their hair. This must have been a great and affecting sacrifice to the object bemoaned, as they considered it a part of themselves and absolutely essential to their beauty. Fine hair has been a subject of commendation among all people, and particularly the ancients. Cyrus, when he went to visit his uncle Astyages found him with his eyelashes coloured, and decorated with false locks; the first Caesar obtained permission to wear the laurel-wreath in order to conceal the bareness of his temples. The quantity and beauty of the hair of Absalom is commemorated in holy writ. The modern oriental ladies also set the greatest value on their hair which they braid and perfume. Thus says the poet Hafiz, whome Sir William Jones styles the Anacreon of Persia,
"Those locks, each curl of which is worth a hundred musk-bags of China, would be sweet indeed, if their scent proceeded from sweetness of temper."
and again,
"When the breeze shall waft the fragrance of thy locks over the tomb of Hafiz, a thousand flowers shall spring from the earth that hides his corse."
Achilles clipped his yellow locks and threw them as a sacrifice upon the funeral pyre of Patroclus.
"They clung to an old palm and watched; nor breathNor word dared utter; while the refluent floodLeft on each countenance the hue of death,Ope'd lip and far strained eye spoke worse than death endured.
"But, down the flood, the dauntless boy appeared,—Now rising—plunging—in the eddy whirled—Mastering his course—but now a rock he neared—And closing o'er his head, the deep, dark waters curled.
"Then Hope groaned forth her last; and drear despairSpoke in a shriek; but ere its echo wildHad ceased to thrill; restored to light and air—He climbs, he gains the rock, and holds alive the child.
"Now mark what chanced—that infant was the sonE'vn of the king of Nineveh: and placedBefore him was the youth who so had wonFrom death the royal heir. A captive graced
"All o'er with Nature's gifts he sparkled—braveAnd panting for renown—blushing and praisedThe stripling stood; and closely prest, would craveAlone a place mid warlike men; and raised
"To his full wish, the kingly presence left,Buoyant and bright with hope; dreaming of noughtWhile revelled his full soul in visions deft,But blessings from his sire and pleasures of a court.
"But when his mother heard, she wept; and saidIf he our only child be far awayOr slain in war; how shall our years be stayed?Friendless and old, where is the hand to lay
"Our white hairs in the earth?—So when her fearsHe saw would not be calmed, he did not part,But lived in low estate, to dry her tears,And crushed the full-grown-hopes, exulting at his heart."
"The old man ceased; ere I could speak, his faceGrew more than mortail fair: a mellow lightMantling around him fill'd the shady placeAnd while I wondering stood; he vanished from my sight.
"This I had told,—but shame withheld—and fearThou'dst deem some spirit guilded me—disapprove—Perchance forbid my customed wanderings here;But whencesoe'er the vision, I have strove
"Still vainly to forget—I've heard the mournKindred afar, and captive—oh! my mother—Should he—my heaven announced—exist, return—And meet me drear—lost—wedded to another"—
Then thus Sephora, "In the city whereOur kindred distant dwelt—blood has been shed—Dreamer, had such heroic boy been there,Belike he's numbered with the silent dead.
"Or doth he live he knows not—would not know(Thralled—dead, to thee—in fair Assyrian arms.)Who pines for him afar in fruitless woeA phantom's bride—wasting love, life and charms.
"'Tis as a vine of Galilee should say,Culturer, I reck not thy support, I sighFor a young palm tree, of Euphrates; nay—Or let me him entwine or in my blossom die.
"Thy heart is set on joys it may not prove,And, panting ingrate, scorns the blessings given?—Hoping from dust formed man, a seraph's loveAnd days on earth like to the days of heaven.
"But to my theme, maiden, a lord for thee,And not of thee unworthy—I have chose—Dispel the dread, that in thy looks I see—Nor make it task of anguish to disclose,
"What should be—thine heart's dew. Remember'st thouWhen to the Altar, by thy father reared,We suppliant went with sacrifice and vow,A victim-dove escaped? and there appeared
"And would have brought thee others to supplyIts loss, a Median?—thou, dissolved, to praise,Didst note the beauty of his shape and eye,And, as he parted, in the sunny rays
"The ringlets of his black locks clustering brightAround his pillar-neck," ''tis pity he'Thou saidst, 'in all the comeliness and mightOf perfect man—pity like him, should be
"But an idolater: how nobly sweetHe tempereth pride with courtesy; a flowerDrops honey when he speaks. Yet 'twere most meetTo praise his majesty: he stands—a tower.'
"The same, a false idolater no more,Now bows him to the God, for whose dread ireFall'n on us loved but sinning, we deploreThis long but just captivity. Thy sire
"Receives him well and harkens his requestFor know, he comes to ask thee-for a brideAnd to be one among a people, blestTho' deep in suffering. Nor to him denied
"Art thou, sad daughter—weep—if't be thy will—E'vn on the breast that nourished thee and ne'erDistrest thee or compelled; this bosom stillEv'n should'st though blight its dearest hopes, will share
"Nay, bear thy pains; but sooner in the grave'Twill quench my waning years, if reckless thouOf what I not command, but only crave,Let my heart pine regardless of thy vow."
She thus, 'O think not, kindest, I forget,Receiving so much love, how much is dueFrom me to thee: the Mede I'll wed—but yetI cannot stay these tears that gush to pain thy view.'
Sephora held her to heart, the whileGrief had its way—then saw her gently laidAnd bade her, kissing her blue eyes, beguileSlumbering the fervid noon. Her leafy bed
Sighed forth o'erpowering breath; increased the heat;Sleepless had been the night; her weary senseCould now no more. Lone in the still retreat,Wounding the flowers to sweetness more intense,
She sank. 'Tis thus, kind Nature lets our woeSwell 'til it bursts forth from the o'erfraught breast;Then draws an opiate from the bitter flow,And lays her sorrowing child soft in the lap to rest.
Now all the mortal maid lies indolentSave one sweet cheek which the cool velvet turfHad touched too rude, tho' all the blooms besprent,One soft arm pillowed. Whiter than the surf
That foams against the sea-rock, looked her neck,By the dark, glossy, odorous shrubs relieved,That close inclining o'er her seemed to reckWhat 'twas they canopied; and quickly heaved
Beneath her robe's white folds and azure zone,Her heart yet incomposed; a fillet thro'Peeped brightly azure, while with tender moanAs if of bliss, Zephyr her ringlets blew
Sportive;—about her neck their gold he twined,Kissed the soft violet on her temples warm,And eye brow—just so dark might well defineIts flexile arch;—throne of expression's charm.
As the vexed Caspian, tho' its rage be pastAnd the blue smiling heavens swell o'er in peace,Shook to the centre, by the recent blast,Heaves on tumultuous still, and hath not power to cease.
So still each little pulse was seen to throbTho' passion and its pains were lulled to rest,And "even and anon" a pitious sobShook the pure arch expansive o'er her breast. [FN#12]
[FN#12] This effect is very observable in little children, who for several hours after they have cried themselves to sleep, and sometimes even when a smile is on their lips, are heard, from time to time, to utter sobs.
Save that 'twas all tranquillity; that reignedO'er fragrance sound and beauty; all was mute—Save when a dove her dear one's absence plainedAnd the faint breeze mourned o'er the slumberer's lute.
It chanced, that day, lured by the verdure, cameZophiel, now minister of ill; but ereHe sinned, a heavenly angel. The faint flameOf dying embers, on an altar, where
Raguel, fair Egla's sire, in secret vowedAnd sacrificed to the sole living God,Where friendly shades the sacred rites enshround;—(2)The fiend beheld and knew; his soul was awed,
And he bethought him of the forfeit joysOnce his in Heaven;—deep in a darkling grotHe sat him down;—the melancholy noiseOf leaf and creeping vine accordant with his thought.
When fiercer spirits, howled, he but complained (3)Ere yet 'twas his to roam the pleasant earth,His heaven-invented harp he still retainedTho' tuned to bliss no more; and had its birth
Of him, beneath some black infernal cliftThe first drear song of woe; and torment wrungThe spirit less severe where he might liftHis plaining voice—and frame the like as now he sung:
"Woe to thee, wild ambition, I employDespair's dull notes thy dread effects to tell,Born in high-heaven, her peace thou could'st destroy,And, but for thee, there had not been a hell.
"Thro' the celestial domes thy clarion pealed,—Angels, entranced, beneath thy banners ranged,And stright were fiends;—hurled from the shrinking field,They waked in agony to wait the change.
"Darting thro' all her veins the subtle fireThe world's fair mistress first inhaled thy breath,To lot of higher beings learned to aspire,—Dared to attempt—and doomed the world to death.
"Thy thousand wild desires, that still tormentThe fiercely struggling soul, where peace once dwelt,But perished;—feverish hope—drear discontent,Impoisoning all possest—Oh! I have felt
"As spirits feel—yet not for man we mournScarce o'er the silly bird in state were he,That builds his nest, loves, sings the morn's return,And sleeps at evening; save by aid of thee,
"Fame ne'er had roused, nor song her records keptThe gem, the ore, the marble breathing life,The pencil's colours,—all in earth had slept,Now see them mark with death his victim's strife.
"Man found thee death—but death and dull decayBaffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves;—By mighty works he swells his narrow dayAnd reigns, for ages, on the world he loves.
"Yet what the price? with stings that never ceaseThou goad'st him on; and when, too keen the smart,He fain would pause awhile—and signs for peace,Food thou wilt have, or tear his victim heart."
Thus Zophiel still,—"tho' now the infernal crewHad gained by sin a privilege in the world,Allayed their torments in the cool night dew,And by the dim star-light again their wings unfurled."
And now, regretful of the joys his birthHad promised; deserts, mounts and streams he crost,To find, amid the loveliest spots of earth,Faint likeness of the heaven he had lost.
And oft, by unsuccessful searching pained,Weary he fainted thro' the toilsome hours;And then his mystic nature he sustainedOn steam of sacrifices—breath of flowers. (4)
Sometimes he gave out oracles, amusedWith mortal folly; resting on the shrines;Or, all in some fair Sibyl's form infused,Spoke from her quivering lips, or penned her mystic lines. [FN#13]
[FN#13] This passage merely accords with the belief that the responses of the ancient oracles were spoken by fiends, or evil spirits. We need only look into the "New Testament for a confirmation of the power which such beings were supposed to possess of speaking from the lips of mortals."
And now he wanders on from glade to gladeTo where more precious shrubs diffuse their balms,And gliding thro' the thick inwoven shadeWhere the young Hebrew lay in all her charms,
He caught a glimpse. The colours in her face—Her bare white arms—her lips—her shining hair—Burst on his view. He would have flown the place;Fearing some faithful angel rested there,
Who'd see him—reft of glory—lost to bliss—Wandering and miserably panting—fainTo glean a scanty joy—with thoughts like this—Came all he'd known and lost—he writh'd with pain
Ineffable—But what assailed his ear,A sigh?—surprised, another glance he took;Then doubting—fearing—gradual coming near—He ventured to her side and dared to look;
Whispering, "yes, 'tis of earth! So, new-found lifeRefreshing, looked sweet Eve, with purpose fellWhen first sin's sovereign gazed on her, and strifeHad with his heart, that grieved with arts of hell,
"Stern as it was, to win her o'er to death!—Most beautiful of all in earth, in heaven,Oh! could I quaff for aye that fragrant breathCouldst thou, or being likening thee, be given
"To bloom forever for me thus—still trueTo one dear theme, my full soul flowing o'er,Would find no room for thought of what it knew—Nor picturing forfeit transport, curse me more. (5)
"But oh! severest pain!—I cannot beIn what I love, blest ev'n the little span—(With all a spirit's keen capacityFor bliss) permitted the poor insect man.
"The few I've seen and deemed of worth to winLike some sweet flowret mildewed, in my arms,Withered to hidiousness—foul ev'n as sin—Grew fearful hags; and then with potent charm [FN#14]
[FN#14] One of the most striking absurdities in the lately- dispelled superstition of witchcraft, is the extreme hidiousness and misery usually ascribed to such as made use of the agency of evil spirits. I have therefore made it the result of an unforeseen necessity: no female can be supposed to purchase, voluntarily, the power of doing mischief to others at the price of beauty and every thing like happiness on her own part.
"Of muttered word and harmful drug, did learnTo force me to their will. Down the damp graveLoathing, I went at Endor, and uptornBrought back the dead; when tortured Saul did crave,
"To view his pending fate. Fair—nay, as thisYoung slumberer, that dread witch; when, I arrayedIn lovely shape, to meet my guileful kissShe yielded first her lip. And thou, sweet maid—What is't I see?—a recent tear has strayedAnd left its stain upon her cheek of bliss.—
"She's fall'n to sleep in grief—haply been chid,Or by rude mortal wronged. So let it proveMeet for my purpose: 'mid these blossoms hid,I'll gaze; and when she wakes with all that love
"And art can lend, come forth. He who would gainA fond full heart, in love's soft surgery skilledShould seek it when 'tis sore; allay its pain—With balm by pity prest 'tis all his own, so healed
"She may be mine a little year—ev'n fairAnd sweet as now—Oh! respite! while possestI lose the dismal sense of my despair—But then—I will not think upon the rest.
"And wherefore grieve to cloud her little day [FN#15]Of fleeting life?—What doom from power divineI bear eternal! thoughts of ruth, away!Wake pretty fly!—and—while thou mayst,—be mine.
"Tho' but an hour—so thou suppli'st thy loomsWith shining silk, [FN#16] and in the cruel snareSee'st the fond bird entrapped, but for his plumesTo work thy robes, or twine amidst thy hair."
[FN#15] The ancient Hebrews had no idea of a future state.
[FN#16] I have not been able to discover whether the use of silk was known at so early a period. It is said to have been sold in Rome for its weight in gold, and was considered so luxurious an article that it was considered infamous for a man to appear drest in it. The Roman Pausanias says that it came from the country of the Seres, a people of Asiatic Scythia.
To wisper softly in her ear he bent,But draws him back restrained: A higher powerThat loved to watch o'er slumbering innocent,Repelled his evil touch; and, from her bower
To lead the maid, Sephora comes; the spriteHalf baffled, followed—hovering on unseen—Till Meles, fair to see and nobly dight,Received his pensive bride. Gentle of mien
She meekly stood. He fastened round her armRings of refulgent ore; low and apartMurmuring, "so beauteous captive, shall thy charmsForever thrall and clasp thy captive's heart."
The air breathed softer, as she slowly movedIn languid resignation: his quick eyeSpoke in black glances how she was approved,Who shrunk reluctant from its ardency.
'Twas sweet to look upon the goodly pairIn their contrasted loveliness: her heightMight almost vie with his; but heavenly fair,Of soft proportion she, and sunny hairHe cast in manliest mould with ringlets murk as night.
All art could give with Nature's charms was blent,His gorgeous country shone in his attire,And as he moved with tread magnificentShe could but look and looking must admire.
And oft her drooping and resigned blue eyeShe'd wistful raise to read his radiant face,But then—why shrank her heart? a secret sighTold her it most required what there it could not trace.
Now fair had fall'n the night. The damsel musedAt her own window, in the pearly rayOf the full moon; her thoughtful soul infusedThus in her words; left 'lone awhile, to pray.
"What bliss for her who lives her little day,In blest obedience; like to those divineWho to her loved, her earthly lord, can say'God is thy law,' most just 'andthouart mine.'
"To every blast she bends in beauty meek—How can she shrink—his arms her shelter kind?—And feels no need to blanch her rosy cheekWith thoughts befitting his superior mind.
"Who only sorrows when she sees him pained,Then knows to pluck away pain's fiercest dart;Or, love arresting, ere its gaol is gainedSteal half its venom ere it reach his heart.
"'Tis the soul's food—the fervid must adore—For this the heathen, insufficed with thoughtMoulds him an idol of the glittering oreOr shines his smiling goddess, marble-wrought.
"What bliss for her—e'en on this world of woeOh! sire who mak'st yon orb-strown arch thy throne,—That sees thee, in thy nobles work below,Shine undefaced!—and calls that work her own!
"This I had hoped: but hope too dear, too great—Go to thy grave! I feel thee blasted, now—Give me, fate's sovereign, well to bear the fateThy pleasure sends—this, my sole prayer, allow."
Still, fixed on heaven, her earnest eye, all dew,Seemed as it sought amid the lamps of nightFor him her soul addressed; but other viewFar different—sudden from that pensive plight
Recalled her: quick as on primeval gloomBurst the new day-star, when the Eternal bid,Appeared, and glowing filled the dusky room,As 'twere a brillant cloud; the form it hid
Modest emerged, as might a youth beseem;Save a slight scarf, his beauty bare, and whiteAs cygnet's bosom on some silver stream;Or young narcissus, when to woo the light
Of itsfirstmorn, that flowret open springs;—And near the maid he comes with timid gazeAnd gently fans her, with his full spread wingsTransparent as the cooling gush that plays
From ivory fount. Each bright prismatic tintStill vanishing, returning, blending, changing,Glowed, from their fibrous mystic texture glint,Like colours o'er the full-blown bubble ranging
That pretty urchins launch upon the airAnd laugh to see it vanish; yet, so bright,More like—and even that were faint compare,As shaped from some new rain-bow; rosy light
Like that which pagans say the dewy carPrecedes of their Aurora, clipp'd him roundRetiring as he mov'd; and evening's starShamed not the diamond coronal that bound
His curly locks. And still to teach his faceExpression dear to her he wooed he sought;And, in his hand, he held a little vaseOf virgin gold in strange devices wrought.
Love toned he spoke, "Fair sister, [FN#17] art thou hereWith pensive looks, so near thy bridal bed,Fixed on the pale cold moon? Nay! do not fear—To do thee weal o'er mount and stream I've sped.
[FN#17] Sister, was an affectionate appellation, used by the Jews towards all women.
"Say, doth thy soul in all its sweet excessRush to this bridegroom, smooth and falsehood-taught.Ah, now! thou yield'st thee to a loathed caress—While thy heart tells thee loud it owns him not.
"Hadst thou but seen, on Tigris' banks, this mornWasting her wild complaints, a wretched maid,Stung with her wrongs—lone—beauty-reft—forlorn—And learned 'twas ev'n thy Meles who betrayed,
"Well hadst thou then shrunk to return his loveBut wherefore now, on theme of sorrow bide?—What would thy beauty? here I wait—nay, proveA spirit's power, nor be my boon denied!
"I'll tell thee secrets of the neither earthAnd highest heaven—or dost some service crave?Declare thy bidding, best of mortal birth,I'll be thy winged messenger, thy slave." (7)
Then softly Egla, "Lovely being tell—In pity to the grief thy lips betrayThe knowledge of—say with some kindly spellDost come from heaven, to charm my pains away?
"Alas! what know'st thou of my plighted lord?If guilt pollute him, as unless mine earDeceive me in the purport of thy word,Thou mean'st t' imply—kind spirit rest not here
"But to my father hasten and make knownThe fearful truth: my doom is his command;Writ in heaven's book, I guard the oath I've swornUnless he will to blot it by thine hand."
"Thy plight to Meles little need avail."Zophiel replies: "ere morn, if't be thy willTo Lybian deserts he shall howl his taleI'll hurl him, at thy word, o'er forest, sea and hill.
"By all the frauds, which forged in his black breast,Come forth so white and silvery from his tongue,My potency he soon shall prove; nor restTo banquet on the blood of hearts by him unstrung,
"And reft of all their music. Every painBy him inflicted for his own vile joysRend his vile self! fruition not againShall crown such arts as now the slave employs!
"But sooth thee, maiden, be thy soul at peace;Mine be the care to hasten to thy sireAnd null thy vow: let every terror cease:Perfect success attends thy least desire."
Then lowly bending with seraphic graceThe vase he proffered full; and not a gemDrawn forth successive from its sparkling placeBut put to shame the Persian diadem.
While he "Nay, let me o'er thy white arms bindThese orient pearls less smooth; Egla, for thee,My thrilling substance pained by storm and wind,I sought them mid the caverns of the sea.
"And here's a ruby drinking solar raysI saw it redden on a mountain tip,Now on thy snowy bosom let it blaze:'Twill blush still deeper to behold thy lip.
"Look, for thy hair a garland; every flowerThat spreads its blossoms, watered by the tearOf the sad slave in Babylonian bower,Might see its fraid bright hues perpetuate here.
"For morn's light bell, this changeful amythistA sapphire for the violet's tender blue;Large opals for the queen-rose zephyr-kist;And here are emeralds of ev'ry hueFor ev'ry folded bud and leaflet dropped with dew.
"And here's a diamond cull'd from Indian mineTo gift a haughty queen: it might not be—I knew a worthier brow, sister divine,And brought the gem; for well I deem for thee
"The 'arch-chymic sun' in earth's dark bosom wroughtTo prison thus a ray; that when dull nightLours o'er his realms and nature's all seems noughtShe whom he grieves to leave may still behold his light." [FN#18]
Thus spake he on, for still the wondering maidGazed, as a youthful artist,—rapturously,Each perfect, smooth, harmonious limb survey'dInsatiate still her beauty-loving eye.
[FN#18] It was not unusual among the nations of the east, to imitate flowers with precious stones. The Persian kings about the time of Artaxerxes, sat, when they gave audience under a vine, the leaves of which were formed of gold and the grapes of emeralds.
For Zophiel wore a mortal form; and blentIn mortal form, when perfect, nature showsHer all that's fair, enhanc'd; fire, firmament,Ocean, earth flowers and gems, all there disclose
Their charms epitomized: the heavenly powerTo lavish beauty, in this last work crown'd—And Egla form'd of fibres such as dowerThose who most feel, forgot all else around.
He saw, and softening every wily wordSpoke in more melting music to her soul,And o'er her sense as when the fond night birdWoos the full rose o'erpowering fragrance stole. (6)
Or when the lillies, sleepier perfume, move,Disturbed by too young sister-fawns, that playAmong their graceful stalks at morn, and loveFrom their white cells to lip the dews away.
She strove to speak, but 'twas in murmurs low,While o'er her cheek, his potent spell confessing,Deeper diffused the warm carnation glowStill dewy wet with tears her inmost soul confessing.
As the little reptile, in some lonely grove,With fixed bright eye of facinating flameLures on by slow degrees the plaining dove,So nearer—nearer still—the bride and spirit came.
"Thou, strong, invisible, invidious sprite,Now, from my love my peerless mortal shield—What exultation for thy power to night!Look on thy beauteous charge!—why does she yield?"
Thus secret he, the pearly bracelet holding,Lending his lip to accents sweetlier blandThe light that clipt him, half the maid enfoldingHalf given—tho' dubious half—her lilly hand.
Success seemed his;—but secret, in the heightAnd pride of transport; as he set at noughtAnd taunts her guardian power; infernal lightShot from his eye, with guilt and treachery fraught.
Haply it was but Nature:—she bestowsIntuitive preception, and while artO'ertasks himself with guile, loves to discloseThe dark soul in the eye, to warn th' o'ertrusting heart.
Zophiel, howe'er the warning came, was foiledWhat torments burned in his unearthly breast!The while her trembling hand—untouched, recoiled,That, wild, exulting glance, the wily fiend confest.
Faintly he spoke—"'Tis Meles' step I here,Guilty thou know'st him—wilt receive him still?"—The rosy blood driven to her heart by fearShe said, in accents faint, but firm, "I will."
The spirit heard; and all again was dark;Save, as before, the melancholy flameOf the full moon; and faint, unfrequent sparkWhich from the perfume's burning embers came.
That stood in vases round the room disposed;Shuddering and trembling to her couch she crept,—Soft oped the door and quick again was closed,And thro' the pale grey moon-light Meles stept.
But ere he yet, in haste, could throw asideHis broidered belt and sandals—dread to [illegible]Eager he sprang—he sought to clasp his bride—He stopt—a groan was heard—he gasped and fell
Low by the couch of her who widowed layHer ivory hands convulsive clasped in prayer,But lacking power to move; and when 'twas day,A cold black corse was all of Meles, there.