{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_18739/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_18739","id":"gutenberg_18739","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18739","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Poetry"],"text":"Produced using page scans from The University of\nMichigan's Making of America online book collection\n(http://www.hti.umich.edu/m/moa/)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nZOPHIEL,\n\n\nA Poem,\n\n\n\nBy Mrs. Brooks.\n\n\n\n\n\n------------Forse la sorte\nF. stanca di me tormentar--_Metastasio._\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBoston:\n\nPublished by Richardson & Lord.\n\n\n  *  *  *\n\nJ. H. A. Frost, Printer.\n\n\n\n1825.\n\n\n\n\n\nDISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit:\n                    District Clerk's Office.\n\nBe it remembered, that on the twelfth day of August, A. D. 1825, in\nthe fiftieth year of the Independence of the United States of\nAmerica, _Richardson & Lord,_ of the said District, have deposited in\nthis office the Title of a Book, the right whereof they claim as\nProprietors, in the words following, _to wit:_\n\n\n          Zophiel, a Poem, by Mrs. Brooks.\n----------Forse la sorte\nE stanca di me tormentar.--_Metastasio._\n\n\nIn conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States,\nentitled, \"An Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the\nCopies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of\nsuch Copies, during the times therein mentioned:\" and also to an\nAct, entitled, \"An Act supplementary to an Act, entitled, An Act for\nthe encouragement of Learning, by securing the Copies of Maps, Charts\nand Books to the Authors and Proprietors of such Copies during the\ntimes therein mentioned; and extending the benefits thereof to the\nArts of Designing, Engraving and Etching Historical and other Prints.\"\n\n                              JOHN W. DAVIS,\n                       Clerk of the District of Massachusetts.\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\n\nWishing to make a continued effort, in an art which, though almost\nin secret, has been adored and assiduously cultivated from earliest\ninfancy, it was my intention to have chosen some incident from Pagan\nhistory, as the foundation of my contemplated poem. But, looking over\nthe Jewish annals, I was induced to select for my purpose, one of\ntheir well-known stories which besides its extreme beauty, seemed to\nopen an extensive field for the imagination which might therein avail\nitself not only of important and elevated truths but pleasing and\npopular superstitions.\n\nHaving finished one Canto I left the United States for the West\nIndies in the hope of being able to sail thence for Great Britain,\nwhere I might submit what I had done to the candour of some able\nwriter; publish it, if thought expedient; and obtain advice and\nmaterials for the improvement and prosecution of my work. But as\nevents have transpired to frustrate that intention I have endeavored\nto make it as perfect, as with the means I have access to, is\npossible.\n\nIt is, now, far beneath what might have been done, under the\ninfluence of more decided hopes and more auspicious circumstances.\nYet, as it is, I am induced to place it before the public, with that\nanxiety which naturally attends the doubtful accomplishment of any\nfavourite object, on the principle that no artist can make the same\nimprovement, or labour with so much pleasure to himself, in private,\nas when comparing his efforts with those of others, and listening to\nthe opinions of critics and the remarks of connoisseurs. The beauty,\nthough she may view herself, in her mirror, from the ringlets of her\nhair to the sole of her slipper, and appear most lovely to her own\ngaze, can never be certain of her power to please until the suffrage\nof society confirm the opinion formed in seclusion; and \"Qu'est ce\nque la beaute s'elle ne touche pas?\"\n\nLiterary employments are necessary to the happiness and almost to\nthe vitality of those who pursue them with much ardour; and though\nthe votaries of the muses are, too often, debased by faults, yet,\nabstractedly considered, a taste for any art, if well directed, must\nseem a preservative not only against melancholy, but even against\nmisery and vice.\n\nGenius, whatever its bent, supposes a refined and delicate moral\nsense and though sometimes perverted by sophistry or circumstance,\nand sometimes failing through weakness; can always, at least,\ncomprehend and feel, the grandeur of honour and the beauty of virtue.\n\nAs to the faults of those to whom the world allows the possession of\ngenius, there are, perhaps, good grounds for the belief that they\nhave actually fewer than those employed about ordinary affairs; but\nthe last are easily concealed and the first carefully dragged to\nlight.\n\nThe miseries too, sometimes attendant to persons of distinguished\nliterary attainments, are often held forth as a subject of \"warn and\nscare\" but Cervantes and Camoens would both have been cast into\nprison even though unable to read or write, and Savage, though a\nmechanic or scrivener, would probably have possessed the same\nfailings and consequently have fallen into the same, or a greater\ndegree of poverty and suffering. Alas! how many, in the flower of\nyouth and strength, perish in the loathsome dungeons of this island,\nand, when dead, are refused a decent grave; who, in many instances,\nwere their histories traced by an able pen would be wept by half the\ncivilized world.\n\nAlthough I can boast nothing but an extreme and unquenchable love\nfor the art to which my humble aspirations are confined, my lyre has\nbeen a solace when every thing else has failed; soothing when\nagitated, and when at peace furnishing that exercise and excitement\nwithout which the mind becomes sick, and all her faculties retrograde\nwhen they ought to be advancing. Men, when they feel that nature has\nkindled in their bosoms a flame which must incessantly be fed, can\ncultivate eloquence and exert it, in aid of the unfortunate before\nthe judgment seats of their country; or endeavour to \"lure to the\nskies\" such as enter the temples of their god; but woman, alike\nsubject to trials and vicissitudes and endowed with the same wishes,\n(for the observation, \"there is no sex to soul,\" is certainly not\nuntrue,) condemned, perhaps, to a succession of arduous though minute\nduties in which, oftentimes, there is nothing to charm and little to\ndistract, unless she be allowed the exercise of her pen must fall\ninto melancholy and despair, and perish, (to use the language of Mad.\nde Stael,) \"consumed by her own energies.\"\n\nThus do we endeavour to excuse any inordinate or extreme attachment\nby labouring to show in their highest colours the merits of its\nobject.\n\nZophiel may or may not be called entirely a creature of imagination,\nas comports with the faith of the reader; he is not, however, endowed\nwith a single miraculous attribute; for which the general belief of\nages, even among christians, may not be produced as authority.\n\nThe stanza in which his story is told though less complicate and\nbeautiful than the Spencerian, is equally ancient; and favorable to a\npensive melody, is also susceptible of much variety.\n\nThe marginal notes will be useless to such as have read much.\n\n     _San Patricio, Island of Cuba, March 30, 1825._\n\n\n\n\n\nINVOCATION.\n\n\n\nThou with the dark blue eye upturned to heaven,\nAnd cheek now pale, now warm with radiant glow,\n          Daughter of God,--most dear,--\n          Come with thy quivering tear,\nAnd tresses wild, and robes of loosened flow,--\nTo thy lone votaress let one look be given!\n\nCome Poesy! nor like some just-formed maid,\nWith heart as yet unswoln by bliss or woe;--\n          But of such age be seen\n          As Egypt's glowing queen,\nWhen her brave Roman learned to love her so\nThat death and loss of fame, were, by a smile, repaid.\n\nOr as thy Sappho, when too fierce assailed\nBy stern ingratitude her tender breast:--\n          Her love by scorn repaid\n          Her friendship true betrayed,\nSick of the guileful earth, she sank for rest\nIn the cold waves embrace; while Grecian muse bewailed.\n\nBe to my mortal eye, like some fair dame--\nRipe, but untouched by time; whose frequent blush\n          Plays o'er her cheek of truth\n          As soft as earliest youth;\nWhile thoughts exalted to her mild eye rush--\nAnd the expanded soul, tells 'twas from heaven it came.\n\nDaughter of life's first cause; who, when he saw\nThe ills that unborn innocents must bear,\n          When doomed to come to earth--\n          Bethought--and gave thee birth\nTo charm the poison from affliction there;\nAnd from his source eternal, bade thee draw.\n\nHe gave thee power, inferior to his own\nBut in control o'er matter. 'Mid the crash\n          Of earthquake, war, and storm,\n          Is seen thy radiant form\nThou com'st at midnight on the lightning's flash,\nAnd ope'st to those thou lov'st new scenes and worlds unknown.\n\nAnd still, as wild barbarians fiercely break\nThe graceful column and the marble dome--\n          Where arts too long have lain\n          Debased at pleasure's fain,\nAnd bleeding justice called on wrath to come,\n'Mid ruins heaped around, thou bidst thy votarists wake.\n\nMethinks I see thee on the broken shrine\nOf some fall'n temple--where the grass waves high\n          With many a flowret wild;\n          While some lone, pensive, child\nLooks on the sculpture with a wondering eye\nWhose kindling fires betray that he is chosen thine. [FN#1]\n\n\n[FN#1]  Genius, perhaps, has often, nay generally, been awakened and\nthe whole future bent of the mind thus strongly operated upon,\ndetermined, by some circumstance trivial as this.\n\n\nOr on some beetling cliff--where the mad waves\nRush echoing thro' the high-arched caves below,\n          I view some love-reft fair\n          Whose sighing warms the air,\nGaze anxious on the ocean as it raves\nAnd call on thee-alone, of power to sooth her woe.\n\nFriend of the wretched; smoother of the couch\nOf pining hope; thy pitying form I know!\n          Where thro' the wakeful night,\n          By a dim taper's light,\nLies a pale youth, upon his pallet low,\nWhose wan and woe-worn charms rekindle at thy touch.\n\nFriendless--oppressed by fate--the restless fires\nOf his thralled soul prey on his beauteous frame--\n          Till, strengthened by thine aid,\n          He shapes some kindred maid,\nPours forth in song the life consuming flame,\nAnd for awhile forgets his sufferings and desires.\n\nScorner of thoughtless grandeur, thou hast chose\nThy _best-beloved_ from ruddy Nature's breast:\n          The grotto dark and rude--\n          The forest solitude--\nThe craggy mount by blushing clouds carest--\nHave altars where thy light etherial glows. [FN#2]\n\n\n[FN#2]  Every nation, however rude, has, as it has been justly\nobserved, a taste for poetry. This art after all that has and can be\nsaid for and against it, is the language of nature, and among the\nrelics of the most polished and learned nations little has survived\nexcept such as simply depicts those natural feelings and images which\nhave ever existed and ever must continue. Most of the great poets\nhave been individuals of humble condition rising from the mass of the\npeople by that natural principle which causes the most etherial\nparticles to rise and the denser to sink to the earth. But, as Byron\nexquisitely says, in one of the most wonderfully beautiful pages he\never composed,\n\n\n     \"Many are poets who have never penned\n     Their inspirations, and, perchance, the best;\n     They felt, they loved, and died; but would not lend\n     Their thoughts to meaner beings; they comprest\n     The god within them, and rejoined the stars\n     Unlaurel'd upon earth.\"\n\n\nIn the place where I now write amid several hundred Africans of\ndifferent ages, and nations, the most debased of any on the face of\nthe earth, I have been enabled to observe, even in this, last link of\nthe chain of humanity, the strong natural love for music and poetry.\n\nAny little incident which occurs on the estate where they toil, and\nwhich the greater part of them are never suffered to leave, is\nimmediately made the subject of a rude song which they, in their\nbroken Spanish, sing to their companions; and thereby relieve a\nlittle the monotony of their lives.\n\nI have observed these poor creatures, under various circumstances,\nand though, generally, extremely brutal, have, in some instances,\nheard touches of sentiment from them, when under the influence of\ngrief, equal to any which have flowed from the pen of Rousseau.\n\n\nThy sovereign priest by earth's vile sons was driven\nTo make the cold unconscious earth his bed: [FN#3]\n          The damp cave mocked his sighs--\n          But from his sightless eyes,\nWrung forth by wrongs, the anguished drops he shed,\nFell each as an appeal to summon thee from heaven.\n\nThou sought'st him in his desolation; placed\nOn thy warm bosom his unpillowed head;\n          Bade him for visions live\n          More bright than worlds can give;\nO'er his pale lips thy soul infusive shed\nThat left his dust adored where kings decay untraced.\n\n\n[FN#3]  \"On the banks of the Meles was shown the spot where\nCritheis, the mother of Homer, brought him into the world, and the\ncavern to which he retired to compose his immortal verses. A monument\nerected to his memory and inscribed with his name stood in the middle\nof the city--it was adorned with spacious porticos under which the\ncitizens assembled.\"\n\n\nSource of deep feeling--of surpassing love--\nCreative power,--'tis thou hast peopled heaven\n          Since man from dust arose\n          His birth the cherub owes [FN#4]\nTo thee--by thee his rapturous harp was given\nAnd white wings tipp'd with gold that cool the domes above.\n\n\n[FN#4]  The Indians (says M. de Voltaire) from whom every species of\ntheology is derived, invented the angels and represented them in\ntheir ancient book the \"Shasta,\" as immortal creatures, participating\nin the divinity of their creator; against whom a great number\nrevolted in heaven, \"Les Parsis ignicoles, qui subsistent encore ont\ncommunique a l'auteur de la religion des anciens Perses les noms des\nanges que les premiers Perses reconnaissaient. On en trouve cent-dix-\nneuf, parmi desquels ne sont ni Raphael ni Gabriel que les Perses\nn'adopterent que long-tems apres. Ces mots sont Chaldeens; ils ne\nfurent connus des Juifs que dans leur captivite.\"\n\n\nHusher of secret sighs--from childhood's hour\nThe slave of Fate, I've knelt before thy throne;\n          To thy loved courts have sped\n          Whene'er my heart has bled,\nAnd every ray of bliss that heart has known\nHas reached it thro' thy grief-dispelling power.\n\nFain thro' my native solitudes I'd roam\nBathe my rude harp in my bright native streams\n          Twine it with flowers that bloom\n          But for the deserts gloom,\nOr, for the long and jetty hair that gleams\nO'er the dark-bosomed maid that makes the wild her home. [FN#5]\n\n\n[FN#5]  This invocation when composed was intended to precede a\nseries of poems entitled Occidental Eclogues; which work the writer\nhas never found opportunity to finish.\n\n\nI sing not for the crowd, or low or high--\nA pensive wanderer on life's thorny heath\n          Earth's pageants for my view\n          Have nought: I love but few,\nAnd few who chance to hear thy trembling breath,\nMy lyre, for her who wakes thee, have a sigh. [FN#6]\n\n\n[FN#6]  It may not be improper to observe that these stanzas were\ncomposed during a period of misfortune and dejection.\n\n\nForsake me not! none ever loved thee more!\nFair queen, I'll meet woe's fearfulest frown--and smile;\n          If mid the scene severe\n          Thou'lt drop on me one tear,\nAnd let thy flitting form sometimes beguile\nThe present of its ills--I'll scorn them and adore.\n\nThen warm the form relentless fate would chill--\nDark lours my night--Oh! give me one embrace!\n          If every pain I bear\n          Befit me for thy care,\nCome sorrow--scorn--desertion--I can chase\nDespair, fell watching for her victim still.\n\n\n\n\n\nZOPHIEL.\n\n\n\nCANTO I.\n\n\n\nI.\n\nThe time has been--this holiest records say--\nIn punishment for crimes of mortal birth,\nWhen spirits banished from the realms of day\nWandered malignant o'er the nighted earth.(1)\n\nAnd from the cold and marble lips declared,\nOf some blind-worshipped--earth-created god,\nTheir deep deceits; which trusting monarchs snared\nFilling the air with moans, with gore the sod. [FN#7]\n\nYet angels doffed their robes in radiance dyed,\nAnd for a while the joys of heaven delayed,\nTo watch benign by some just mortal's side--\nOr meet th' aspiring love of some high gifted maid. [FN#8]\n\nBlest were those days!--can these dull ages boast\nAught to compare? tho' now no more beguile--\nChain'd in their darkling depths th' infernal host--\nWho would not brave a fiend to share an angel's smile?\n\n\n[FN#7]  The god who conducted the Hebrews sent a malignant spirit to\nspeak from the mouth of the prophets, in order to deceive king Achab.\n\n[FN#8]  It is useless to note this stanza, as two well-known poems\nhave lately been founded on the same passage of the Pentateuch to\nwhich it alludes.\n\n\nII.\n\n'Twas then there lived a captive Hebrew pair;\nIn woe th' embraces of their youth had past,\nAnd blest their paler years one daughter--fair\nShe flourished, like a lonely rose, the last\n\nAnd loveliest of her line. The tear of joy--\nThe early love of song--the sigh that broke\nFrom her young lip--the best-beloved employ--\nWhat womanhood disclosed in infancy bespoke.\n\nA child of passion--tenderest and best\nOf all that heart has inly loved and felt;\nAdorned the fair enclosure of her breast--\nWhere passion is not found, no virtue ever dwelt.\n\nYet not, perverted, would my words imply\nThe impulse given by Heaven's great Artizan\nAlike to man and worm--mere spring, whereby\nThe distant wheels of life, while time endures, roll on--\n\nBut the collective ministry that fill\nAbout the soul, their all-important place--\nThat feed her fires--empower her fainting will--\nAnd write the god on feeble mortals face.\n\n\nIII.\n\nYet anger, or revenge, envy or hate\nThe damsel knew not: when her bosom burned\nAnd injury darkened the decrees of fate,\nShe had more pitious wept to see that pain returned.\n\nOr if, perchance, tho' formed most just and pure,\nAmid their virtue's wild luxuriance hid,\nSuch germ all mortal bosoms must immure\nWhich sometimes show their poisonous heads unbid--\n\nIf haply such the lovely Hebrew finds,\nSelf knowledge wept th' abasing truth to know,\nAnd _innate pride,_ that _queen of noble minds,_\nCrushed them indignant ere a bud could grow.\n\n\nIV.\n\nAnd such--ev'n now, in earliest youth are seen--\nBut would they live, with armour more deform,\nTheir love--o'erflowing breasts must learn to screen:\n\"The bird that sweetest sings can least endure the storm.\"\n\n\nV.\n\nAnd yet, despite of all the gushing tear--\nThe melting tone--the darting heart-stream--proved,\nThe soul that in them spoke, could spurn at fear\nOf death or danger; and had those she loved\n\nRequired it at their need, she could have stood,\nUnmoved, as some fair-sculptured statue, while\nThe dome that guards it, earth's convulsions, rude\nAre shivering--meeting ruin with a smile.\n\n\nVI.\n\nAnd this, at intervals in language bright\nTold her blue eyes; tho' oft the tender lid\nLike lilly drooping languidly; and white\nAnd trembling--all save love and lustre hid.\n\nThen, as young christian bard had sung, they seemed\nLike some Madonna in his soul--so sainted;\nBut opening in their energy--they beamed\nAs tasteful pagans their Minerva painted;\n\nWhile o'er her graceful shoulders' milky swell,\nLike those full oft on little children seen\nAlmost to earth her silken ringlets fell\nNor owned Pactolus' sands more golden sheen.\n\n\nVII.\n\nAnd now, full near, the hour unwished for drew\nWhen fond, Sephora hoped to see her wed;\nAnd, for 'twould else expire, impatient grew\nTo renovate her race from beauteous Egla's bed.\n\n\nVIII.\n\nNone of their kindred lived to claim her hand\nBut stranger-youths had asked her of her sire\nWith gifts and promise fair; he could withstand\nAll save her tears; and harkening her desire\n\nStill left her free; but soon her mother drew\nFrom her a vow, that when the twentieth year\nIts full, fair finish o'er her beauty threw,\nIf what her fancy fed on, came not near,\n\nShe would entreat no more but to the voice\nOf her light-giver hearken; and her life\nAnd love--all yielding to that kindly choice\nWould hush each idle wish and learn to be a wife.\n\n\nIX.\n\nNow oft it happ'd when morning task was done\nAnd for the virgins of her household made\nAnd lotted each her toil; while yet the sun\nWas young, fair Egla to a woody shade,\n\nLoved to retreat; there, in the fainting hour\nOf sultry noon the burning sunbeam fell\nLike a warm twilight; so bereft of power,\nIt gained an entrance thro' the leafy bower;\nThat scarcely shrank the tender lilly bell\n\nTranquil and lone in such a light to be,\nHow sweet to sense and soul!--the form recline\nForgets it ere felt pain; and reverie,\nSweet mother of the muses, heart and soul are thine. [FN#9]\n\n\n[FN#9]  Every one talks and reads of groves, but it is impossible\nfor those who never felt it, to conceive the effect of such a\nsituation in a warm climate. In this island the woods which are\nnaturally so interwoven with vines as to be impervious to a human\nbeing, are in some places, cleared and converted into nurseries for\nthe young coffee-trees which remain sheltered from the sun and wind\ntill sufficiently grown to transplant. To enter one of these\n\"semilleros,\" as they are here called, at noon day, produces an\neffect like that anciently ascribed to the waters of Lethe. After\nsitting down upon the trunk of a fallen cedar or palm-tree, and\nbreathing for a moment, the freshness of the air and the odour of the\npassion flower, which is one of the most abundant, and certainly the\nmost beautiful of the climate; the noise of the trees, which are\ncontinually kept in motion by the trade winds; the fluttering and\nvarious notes, though not musical, of the birds; the loftiness of the\ngreen canopy, for the trunks of the trees are bare to a great height,\nand seem like pillars supporting the thick mass of leaves above; and\nthe rich mellow light which the intense rays of the sun, thus\nimpeded, produce; have altogether such an effect that one\ninvoluntarily forgets every thing but the present, and it requires a\nstrong effort to rise and leave the place.\n\n\n\nX.\n\nThis calm recess on summer day she sought\nAnd sat to tune her lute; but all night long\nQuiet had from her pillow flown, and thought\nFeverish and tired, sent for th' unseemly throng\n\nOf boding images. She scarce could woo\nOne song reluctant, ere advancing quick\nThro' the fresh leaves Sephora's form she knew\nAnd duteous rose to meet; but fainting sick\n\nHer heart sank tremulously in her; why\nSought out at such an hour, it half divined\nAnd seated now beside, with downcast eye\nAnd fevered pulse, she met the pressure, kind\n\nAnd warmly given; while thus the matron fair\nNor yet much marr'd by time, with soothing words\nSolicitous; and gently serious air\nThe purpose why she hither came preferr'd:\n\n\nXI.\n\n\"Egla, my hopes thou knowest--tho' exprest\nBut rare lest they should pain thee--I have dealt\nNot rudely towards thee tender; and supprest\nThe wish, of all, my heart has most vehement felt.\n\n\"Know I have marked, that when the reason why\nThou still wouldst live in virgin state, thy sire\nHas prest thee to impart, quick in thine eye\nSemblance of hope has played--fain to transpire\n\n\"Words seem'd to seek thy lip; but the bright rush\nOf heart-blood eloquent, alone would tell\nIn the warm language of a rebel blush\nWhat thy less treacherous tongue has guarded well.\n\n\nXII.\n\n\"Dost waste so oft alone--the cheerful day?\nOr haply, rather bath some pagan youth\"--\nShe with quick burst--'whate'er has happ'd I'll say!\nDoubt thou my wisdom, but regard my truth!\n\n\nXIII.\n\n\"Long time ago, while yet a twelve years' child\nThese shrubs and vines, new planted, near this spot,\nI sat me tired with pleasant toil, and whiled\nAway the time with many a wishful thought\n\n\"Of desolate Judea. Every scene\nWhich thou so oft, while sitting on thy knee,\nWouldst sing of, weeping, thro' my mind has been\nSuccessive; when from yon old mossy tree\n\n\"I heard a pitious moan. Wondering I went\nAnd found a wretched man; worn and opprest\nHe seemed with toil and years; and whispering faint\nHe said \"Oh little maiden, sore distrest\n\n\"I sink for very want. Give me I pray,\nA drop of water and a cake: I die\nOf thirst and hunger, yet my sorrowing way\nMay tread once more, if thou my needs supply.\"\n\n\nXIV.\n\n\"A long time missing from thy fondling arms--\nIt chanced that day thou'dst sent me in the shade\nNew bread, a cake of figs, and wine of palms [FN#10]\nMingled with water, sweet with honey made.\n\n\"These did I bring--raised as I could, his head;\nHeld to his lip the cup; and while he quaffed,\nUpon my garment wiped the tears that sped\nAdown his silvery beard and mingled with the draft.\n\n\n[FN#10]  \"The palm is a very common plant in this country,\n(Assyria,) and generally fruitful; this they cultivate like fig-trees\nand it produces them bread, wine and honey.\" See Beloe's notes to his\ntranslation of Herodotus. Mr. Gibbon adds, that the diligent natives\ncelebrated, either in verse or prose, three hundred and sixty uses to\nwhich the trunk, the branches, the leaves, the juice and the fruit of\nthis plant were applied. Nothing can be more curious and interesting\nthan the natural history of the palm tree.\n\n\nXV.\n\n\"When gaining sudden strength, he raised his hand,\nAnd in this guise did bless me, \"Mayst thou be\nA crown to him who weds thee.--In a land\nFar distant bides a captive. Hearken me\n\n\"And choose thee now a bridegroom meet: to day\nO'er broad Euphrates' steepest banks a child\nFled from his youthful nurse's arms; in play\nElate, he bent him o'er the brink, and smiled\n\n\"To see their fears who followed him--but who\nThe keen wild anguish of that scene can tell--\nHe bend o'er the brink, and in their view,\nBut ah! too far beyond their aid--he fell.\n\n\nXVI.\n\n\"They wailed--the long torn ringlets of their hair [FN#11]\nFreighted the pitying gale; deep rolled the stream\nAnd swallowed the fair child; no succour there--\nThey women--whither look--who to redeem\n\n\"What the fierce waves were preying on?--when lo!\nApproached a stranger boy. Aside he flung,\nAs darted thought, his quiver and his bow\nAnd parted by his limbs the sparkling billows sung.\n\n\n[FN#11]  The women, I believe, among all nations of antiquity were\naccustomed to express violent grief by tearing their hair. This must\nhave been a great and affecting sacrifice to the object bemoaned, as\nthey considered it a part of themselves and absolutely essential to\ntheir beauty. Fine hair has been a subject of commendation among all\npeople, and particularly the ancients. Cyrus, when he went to visit\nhis uncle Astyages found him with his eyelashes coloured, and\ndecorated with false locks; the first Caesar obtained permission to\nwear the laurel-wreath in order to conceal the bareness of his\ntemples. The quantity and beauty of the hair of Absalom is\ncommemorated in holy writ. The modern oriental ladies also set the\ngreatest value on their hair which they braid and perfume. Thus says\nthe poet Hafiz, whome Sir William Jones styles the Anacreon of Persia,\n\n\"Those locks, each curl of which is worth a hundred musk-bags of\nChina, would be sweet indeed, if their scent proceeded from sweetness\nof temper.\"\n\nand again,\n\n\"When the breeze shall waft the fragrance of thy locks over the tomb\nof Hafiz, a thousand flowers shall spring from the earth that hides\nhis corse.\"\n\nAchilles clipped his yellow locks and threw them as a sacrifice upon\nthe funeral pyre of Patroclus.\n\n\nXVII.\n\n\"They clung to an old palm and watched; nor breath\nNor word dared utter; while the refluent flood\nLeft on each countenance the hue of death,\nOpe'd lip and far strained eye spoke worse than death endured.\n\n\nXVIII.\n\n\"But, down the flood, the dauntless boy appeared,--\nNow rising--plunging--in the eddy whirled--\nMastering his course--but now a rock he neared--\nAnd closing o'er his head, the deep, dark waters curled.\n\n\"Then Hope groaned forth her last; and drear despair\nSpoke in a shriek; but ere its echo wild\nHad ceased to thrill; restored to light and air--\nHe climbs, he gains the rock, and holds alive the child.\n\n\nXIX.\n\n\"Now mark what chanced--that infant was the son\nE'vn of the king of Nineveh: and placed\nBefore him was the youth who so had won\nFrom death the royal heir. A captive graced\n\n\"All o'er with Nature's gifts he sparkled--brave\nAnd panting for renown--blushing and praised\nThe stripling stood; and closely prest, would crave\nAlone a place mid warlike men; and raised\n\n\"To his full wish, the kingly presence left,\nBuoyant and bright with hope; dreaming of nought\nWhile revelled his full soul in visions deft,\nBut blessings from his sire and pleasures of a court.\n\n\nXX.\n\n\"But when his mother heard, she wept; and said\nIf he our only child be far away\nOr slain in war; how shall our years be stayed?\nFriendless and old, where is the hand to lay\n\n\"Our white hairs in the earth?--So when her fears\nHe saw would not be calmed, he did not part,\nBut lived in low estate, to dry her tears,\nAnd crushed the full-grown-hopes, exulting at his heart.\"\n\n\nXXI.\n\n\"The old man ceased; ere I could speak, his face\nGrew more than mortail fair: a mellow light\nMantling around him fill'd the shady place\nAnd while I wondering stood; he vanished from my sight.\n\n\nXXII.\n\n\"This I had told,--but shame withheld--and fear\nThou'dst deem some spirit guilded me--disapprove--\nPerchance forbid my customed wanderings here;\nBut whencesoe'er the vision, I have strove\n\n\"Still vainly to forget--I've heard the mourn\nKindred afar, and captive--oh! my mother--\nShould he--my heaven announced--exist, return--\nAnd meet me drear--lost--wedded to another\"--\n\nThen thus Sephora, \"In the city where\nOur kindred distant dwelt--blood has been shed--\nDreamer, had such heroic boy been there,\nBelike he's numbered with the silent dead.\n\n\"Or doth he live he knows not--would not know\n(Thralled--dead, to thee--in fair Assyrian arms.)\nWho pines for him afar in fruitless woe\nA phantom's bride--wasting love, life and charms.\n\n\nXXIII.\n\n\"'Tis as a vine of Galilee should say,\nCulturer, I reck not thy support, I sigh\nFor a young palm tree, of Euphrates; nay--\nOr let me him entwine or in my blossom die.\n\n\"Thy heart is set on joys it may not prove,\nAnd, panting ingrate, scorns the blessings given?--\nHoping from dust formed  man, a seraph's love\nAnd days on earth like to the days of heaven.\n\n\nXXIV.\n\n\"But to my theme, maiden, a lord for thee,\nAnd not of thee unworthy--I have chose--\nDispel the dread, that in thy looks I see--\nNor make it task of anguish to disclose,\n\n\"What should be--thine heart's dew. Remember'st thou\nWhen to the Altar, by thy father reared,\nWe suppliant went with sacrifice and vow,\nA victim-dove escaped? and there appeared\n\n\"And would have brought thee others to supply\nIts loss, a Median?--thou, dissolved, to praise,\nDidst note the beauty of his shape and eye,\nAnd, as he parted, in the sunny rays\n\n\"The ringlets of his black locks clustering bright\nAround his pillar-neck,\" ''tis pity he'\nThou saidst, 'in all the comeliness and might\nOf perfect man--pity like him, should be\n\n\"But an idolater: how nobly sweet\nHe tempereth pride with courtesy; a flower\nDrops honey when he speaks. Yet 'twere most meet\nTo praise his majesty: he stands--a tower.'\n\n\"The same, a false idolater no more,\nNow bows him to the God, for whose dread ire\nFall'n on us loved but sinning, we deplore\nThis long but just captivity. Thy sire\n\n\"Receives him well and harkens his request\nFor know, he comes to ask thee-for a bride\nAnd to be one among a people, blest\nTho' deep in suffering. Nor to him denied\n\n\"Art thou, sad daughter--weep--if't be thy will--\nE'vn on the breast that nourished thee and ne'er\nDistrest thee or compelled; this bosom still\nEv'n should'st though blight its dearest hopes, will share\n\n\"Nay, bear thy pains; but sooner in the grave\n'Twill quench my waning years, if reckless thou\nOf what I not command, but only crave,\nLet my heart pine regardless of thy vow.\"\n\n\nXXV.\n\nShe thus, 'O think not, kindest, I forget,\nReceiving so much love, how much is due\nFrom me to thee: the Mede I'll wed--but yet\nI cannot stay these tears that gush to pain thy view.'\n\n\nXXVI.\n\nSephora held her to heart, the while\nGrief had its way--then saw her gently laid\nAnd bade her, kissing her blue eyes, beguile\nSlumbering the fervid noon. Her leafy bed\n\nSighed forth o'erpowering breath; increased the heat;\nSleepless had been the night; her weary sense\nCould now no more. Lone in the still retreat,\nWounding the flowers to sweetness more intense,\n\nShe sank. 'Tis thus, kind Nature lets our woe\nSwell 'til it bursts forth from the o'erfraught breast;\nThen draws an opiate from the bitter flow,\nAnd lays her sorrowing child soft in the lap to rest.\n\n\nXXVII.\n\nNow all the mortal maid lies indolent\nSave one sweet cheek which the cool velvet turf\nHad touched too rude, tho' all the blooms besprent,\nOne soft arm pillowed. Whiter than the surf\n\nThat foams against the sea-rock, looked her neck,\nBy the dark, glossy, odorous shrubs relieved,\nThat close inclining o'er her seemed to reck\nWhat 'twas they canopied; and quickly heaved\n\nBeneath her robe's white folds and azure zone,\nHer heart yet incomposed; a fillet thro'\nPeeped brightly azure, while with tender moan\nAs if of bliss, Zephyr her ringlets blew\n\nSportive;--about her neck their gold he twined,\nKissed the soft violet on her temples warm,\nAnd eye brow--just so dark might well define\nIts flexile arch;--throne of expression's charm.\n\n\nXXVIII.\n\nAs the vexed Caspian, tho' its rage be past\nAnd the blue smiling heavens swell o'er in peace,\nShook to the centre, by the recent blast,\nHeaves on tumultuous still, and hath not power to cease.\n\nSo still each little pulse was seen to throb\nTho' passion and its pains were lulled to rest,\nAnd \"even and anon\" a pitious sob\nShook the pure arch expansive o'er her breast. [FN#12]\n\n\n[FN#12]  This effect is very observable in little children, who for\nseveral hours after they have cried themselves to sleep, and\nsometimes even when a smile is on their lips, are heard, from time to\ntime, to utter sobs.\n\n\nXXIX.\n\nSave that 'twas all tranquillity; that reigned\nO'er fragrance sound and beauty; all was mute--\nSave when a dove her dear one's absence plained\nAnd the faint breeze mourned o'er the slumberer's lute.\n\n\nXXX.\n\nIt chanced, that day, lured by the verdure, came\nZophiel, now minister of ill; but ere\nHe sinned, a heavenly angel. The faint flame\nOf dying embers, on an altar, where\n\nRaguel, fair Egla's sire, in secret vowed\nAnd sacrificed to the sole living God,\nWhere friendly shades the sacred rites enshround;--(2)\nThe fiend beheld and knew; his soul was awed,\n\nAnd he bethought him of the forfeit joys\nOnce his in Heaven;--deep in a darkling grot\nHe sat him down;--the melancholy noise\nOf leaf and creeping vine accordant with his thought.\n\n\nXXXI.\n\nWhen fiercer spirits, howled, he but complained (3)\nEre yet 'twas his to roam the pleasant earth,\nHis heaven-invented harp he still retained\nTho' tuned to bliss no more; and had its birth\n\nOf him, beneath some black infernal clift\nThe first drear song of woe; and torment wrung\nThe spirit less severe where he might lift\nHis plaining voice--and frame the like as now he sung:\n\n\nXXXII.\n\n\"Woe to thee, wild ambition, I employ\nDespair's dull notes thy dread effects to tell,\nBorn in high-heaven, her peace thou could'st destroy,\nAnd, but for thee, there had not been a hell.\n\n\"Thro' the celestial domes thy clarion pealed,--\nAngels, entranced, beneath thy banners ranged,\nAnd stright were fiends;--hurled from the shrinking field,\nThey waked in agony to wait the change.\n\n\"Darting thro' all her veins the subtle fire\nThe world's fair mistress first inhaled thy breath,\nTo lot of higher beings learned to aspire,--\nDared to attempt--and doomed the world to death.\n\n\"Thy thousand wild desires, that still torment\nThe fiercely struggling soul, where peace once dwelt,\nBut perished;--feverish hope--drear discontent,\nImpoisoning all possest--Oh! I have felt\n\n\"As spirits feel--yet not for man we mourn\nScarce o'er the silly bird in state were he,\nThat builds his nest, loves, sings the morn's return,\nAnd sleeps at evening; save by aid of thee,\n\n\"Fame ne'er had roused, nor song her records kept\nThe gem, the ore, the marble breathing life,\nThe pencil's colours,--all in earth had slept,\nNow see them mark with death his victim's strife.\n\n\"Man found thee death--but death and dull decay\nBaffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves;--\nBy mighty works he swells his narrow day\nAnd reigns, for ages, on the world he loves.\n\n\"Yet what the price? with stings that never cease\nThou goad'st him on; and when, too keen the smart,\nHe fain would pause awhile--and signs for peace,\nFood thou wilt have, or tear his victim heart.\"\n\n\nXXXIII.\n\nThus Zophiel still,--\"tho' now the infernal crew\nHad gained by sin a privilege in the world,\nAllayed their torments in the cool night dew,\nAnd by the dim star-light again their wings unfurled.\"\n\n\nXXXIV.\n\nAnd now, regretful of the joys his birth\nHad promised; deserts, mounts and streams he crost,\nTo find, amid the loveliest spots of earth,\nFaint likeness of the heaven he had lost.\n\nAnd oft, by unsuccessful searching pained,\nWeary he fainted thro' the toilsome hours;\nAnd then his mystic nature he sustained\nOn steam of sacrifices--breath of flowers. (4)\n\n\nXXXV.\n\nSometimes he gave out oracles, amused\nWith mortal folly; resting on the shrines;\nOr, all in some fair Sibyl's form infused,\nSpoke from her quivering lips, or penned her mystic lines. [FN#13]\n\n\n[FN#13]  This passage merely accords with the belief that the\nresponses of the ancient oracles were spoken by fiends, or evil\nspirits. We need only look into the \"New Testament for a confirmation\nof the power which such beings were supposed to possess of speaking\nfrom the lips of mortals.\"\n\n\nXXXVI.\n\nAnd now he wanders on from glade to glade\nTo where more precious shrubs diffuse their balms,\nAnd gliding thro' the thick inwoven shade\nWhere the young Hebrew lay in all her charms,\n\nHe caught a glimpse. The colours in her face--\nHer bare white arms--her lips--her shining hair--\nBurst on his view. He would have flown the place;\nFearing some faithful angel rested there,\n\nWho'd see him--reft of glory--lost to bliss--\nWandering and miserably panting--fain\nTo glean a scanty joy--with thoughts like this--\nCame all he'd known and lost--he writh'd with pain\n\nIneffable--But what assailed his ear,\nA sigh?--surprised, another glance he took;\nThen doubting--fearing--gradual coming near--\nHe ventured to her side and dared to look;\n\nWhispering, \"yes, 'tis of earth! So, new-found life\nRefreshing, looked sweet Eve, with purpose fell\nWhen first sin's sovereign gazed on her, and strife\nHad with his heart, that grieved with arts of hell,\n\n\"Stern as it was, to win her o'er to death!--\nMost beautiful of all in earth, in heaven,\nOh! could I quaff for aye that fragrant breath\nCouldst thou, or being likening thee, be given\n\n\"To bloom forever for me thus--still true\nTo one dear theme, my full soul flowing o'er,\nWould find no room for thought of what it knew--\nNor picturing forfeit transport, curse me more. (5)\n\n\"But oh! severest pain!--I cannot be\nIn what I love, blest ev'n the little span--\n(With all a spirit's keen capacity\nFor bliss) permitted the poor insect man.\n\n\nXXXVII.\n\n\"The few I've seen and deemed of worth to win\nLike some sweet flowret mildewed, in my arms,\nWithered to hidiousness--foul ev'n as sin--\nGrew fearful hags; and then with potent charm [FN#14]\n\n\n[FN#14]  One of the most striking absurdities in the lately-\ndispelled superstition of witchcraft, is the extreme hidiousness and\nmisery usually ascribed to such as made use of the agency of evil\nspirits. I have therefore made it the result of an unforeseen\nnecessity: no female can be supposed to purchase, voluntarily, the\npower of doing mischief to others at the price of beauty and every\nthing like happiness on her own part.\n\n\n\"Of muttered word and harmful drug, did learn\nTo force me to their will. Down the damp grave\nLoathing, I went at Endor, and uptorn\nBrought back the dead; when tortured Saul did crave,\n\n\"To view his pending fate. Fair--nay, as this\nYoung slumberer, that dread witch; when, I arrayed\nIn lovely shape, to meet my guileful kiss\nShe yielded first her lip. And thou, sweet maid--\nWhat is't I see?--a recent tear has strayed\nAnd left its stain upon her cheek of bliss.--\n\n\nXXXVIII.\n\n\"She's fall'n to sleep in grief--haply been chid,\nOr by rude mortal wronged. So let it prove\nMeet for my purpose: 'mid these blossoms hid,\nI'll gaze; and when she wakes with all that love\n\n\"And art can lend, come forth. He who would gain\nA fond full heart, in love's soft surgery skilled\nShould seek it when 'tis sore; allay its pain--\nWith balm by pity prest 'tis all his own, so healed\n\n\nXXXIX.\n\n\"She may be mine a little year--ev'n fair\nAnd sweet as now--Oh! respite! while possest\nI lose the dismal sense of my despair--\nBut then--I will not think upon the rest.\n\n\"And wherefore grieve to cloud her little day [FN#15]\nOf fleeting life?--What doom from power divine\nI bear eternal! thoughts of ruth, away!\nWake pretty fly!--and--while thou mayst,--be mine.\n\n\"Tho' but an hour--so thou suppli'st thy looms\nWith shining silk, [FN#16] and in the cruel snare\nSee'st the fond bird entrapped, but for his plumes\nTo work thy robes, or twine amidst thy hair.\"\n\n\n[FN#15]  The ancient Hebrews had no idea of a future state.\n\n[FN#16]  I have not been able to discover whether the use of silk was\nknown at so early a period. It is said to have been sold in Rome for\nits weight in gold, and was considered so luxurious an article that\nit was considered infamous for a man to appear drest in it. The Roman\nPausanias says that it came from the country of the Seres, a people\nof Asiatic Scythia.\n\n\nXL.\n\nTo wisper softly in her ear he bent,\nBut draws him back restrained: A higher power\nThat loved to watch o'er slumbering innocent,\nRepelled his evil touch; and, from her bower\n\nTo lead the maid, Sephora comes; the sprite\nHalf baffled, followed--hovering on unseen--\nTill Meles, fair to see and nobly dight,\nReceived his pensive bride. Gentle of mien\n\nShe meekly stood. He fastened round her arm\nRings of refulgent ore; low and apart\nMurmuring, \"so beauteous captive, shall thy charms\nForever thrall and clasp thy captive's heart.\"\n\nThe air breathed softer, as she slowly moved\nIn languid resignation: his quick eye\nSpoke in black glances how she was approved,\nWho shrunk reluctant from its ardency.\n\n\nXLI.\n\n'Twas sweet to look upon the goodly pair\nIn their contrasted loveliness: her height\nMight almost vie with his; but heavenly fair,\nOf soft proportion she, and sunny hair\nHe cast in manliest mould with ringlets murk as night.\n\n\nXLII.\n\nAll art could give with Nature's charms was blent,\nHis gorgeous country shone in his attire,\nAnd as he moved with tread magnificent\nShe could but look and looking must admire.\n\n\nXLIII.\n\nAnd oft her drooping and resigned blue eye\nShe'd wistful raise to read his radiant face,\nBut then--why shrank her heart? a secret sigh\nTold her it most required what there it could not trace.\n\n\nXLIV.\n\nNow fair had fall'n the night. The damsel mused\nAt her own window, in the pearly ray\nOf the full moon; her thoughtful soul infused\nThus in  her words; left 'lone awhile, to pray.\n\n\nXLV.\n\n\"What bliss for her who lives her little day,\nIn blest obedience; like to those divine\nWho to her loved, her earthly lord, can say\n'God is thy law,' most just 'and _thou_ art mine.'\n\n\"To every blast she bends in beauty meek--\nHow can she shrink--his arms her shelter kind?--\nAnd feels no need to blanch her rosy cheek\nWith thoughts befitting his superior mind.\n\n\"Who only sorrows when she sees him pained,\nThen knows to pluck away pain's fiercest dart;\nOr, love arresting, ere its gaol is gained\nSteal half its venom ere it reach his heart.\n\n\"'Tis the soul's food--the fervid must adore--\nFor this the heathen, insufficed with thought\nMoulds him an idol of the glittering ore\nOr shines his smiling goddess, marble-wrought.\n\n\"What bliss for her--e'en on this world of woe\nOh! sire who mak'st yon orb-strown arch thy throne,--\nThat sees thee, in thy nobles work below,\nShine undefaced!--and calls that work her own!\n\n\"This I had hoped: but hope too dear, too great--\nGo to thy grave! I feel thee blasted, now--\nGive me, fate's sovereign, well to bear the fate\nThy pleasure sends--this, my sole prayer, allow.\"\n\n\nXLVI.\n\nStill, fixed on heaven, her earnest eye, all dew,\nSeemed as it sought amid the lamps of night\nFor him her soul addressed; but other view\nFar different--sudden from that pensive plight\n\nRecalled her: quick as on primeval gloom\nBurst the new day-star, when the Eternal bid,\nAppeared, and glowing filled the dusky room,\nAs 'twere a brillant cloud; the form it hid\n\nModest emerged, as might a youth beseem;\nSave a slight scarf, his beauty bare, and white\nAs cygnet's bosom on some silver stream;\nOr young narcissus, when to woo the light\n\nOf its _first_ morn, that flowret open springs;--\nAnd near the maid he comes with timid gaze\nAnd gently fans her, with his full spread wings\nTransparent as the cooling gush that plays\n\nFrom ivory fount. Each bright prismatic tint\nStill vanishing, returning, blending, changing,\nGlowed, from their fibrous mystic texture glint,\nLike colours o'er the full-blown bubble ranging\n\nThat pretty urchins launch upon the air\nAnd laugh to see it vanish; yet, so bright,\nMore like--and even that were faint compare,\nAs shaped from some new rain-bow; rosy light\n\nLike that which pagans say the dewy car\nPrecedes of their Aurora, clipp'd him round\nRetiring as he mov'd; and evening's star\nShamed not the diamond coronal that bound\n\nHis curly locks. And still to teach his face\nExpression dear to her he wooed he sought;\nAnd, in his hand, he held a little vase\nOf virgin gold in strange devices wrought.\n\n\nXLVII.\n\nLove toned he spoke, \"Fair sister, [FN#17] art thou here\nWith pensive looks, so near thy bridal bed,\nFixed on the pale cold moon? Nay! do not fear--\nTo do thee weal o'er mount and stream I've sped.\n\n\n[FN#17]  Sister, was an affectionate appellation, used by the Jews\ntowards all women.\n\n\nXLVIII.\n\n\"Say, doth thy soul in all its sweet excess\nRush to this bridegroom, smooth and falsehood-taught.\nAh, now! thou yield'st thee to a loathed caress--\nWhile thy heart tells thee loud it owns him not.\n\n\nXLIX.\n\n\"Hadst thou but seen, on Tigris' banks, this morn\nWasting her wild complaints, a wretched maid,\nStung with her wrongs--lone--beauty-reft--forlorn--\nAnd learned 'twas ev'n thy Meles who betrayed,\n\n\"Well hadst thou then shrunk to return his love\nBut wherefore now, on theme of sorrow bide?--\nWhat would thy beauty? here I wait--nay, prove\nA spirit's power, nor be my boon denied!\n\n\"I'll tell thee secrets of the neither earth\nAnd highest heaven--or dost some service crave?\nDeclare thy bidding, best of mortal birth,\nI'll be thy winged messenger, thy slave.\" (7)\n\n\nL.\n\nThen softly Egla, \"Lovely being tell--\nIn pity to the grief thy lips betray\nThe knowledge of--say with some kindly spell\nDost come from heaven, to charm my pains away?\n\n\"Alas! what know'st thou of my plighted lord?\nIf guilt pollute him, as unless mine ear\nDeceive me in the purport of thy word,\nThou mean'st t' imply--kind spirit rest not here\n\n\"But to my father hasten and make known\nThe fearful truth: my doom is his command;\nWrit in heaven's book, I guard the oath I've sworn\nUnless he will to blot it by thine hand.\"\n\n\nLI.\n\n\"Thy plight to Meles little need avail.\"\nZophiel replies: \"ere morn, if't be thy will\nTo Lybian deserts he shall howl his tale\nI'll hurl him, at thy word, o'er forest, sea and hill.\n\n\nLII.\n\n\"By all the frauds, which forged in his black breast,\nCome forth so white and silvery from his tongue,\nMy potency he soon shall prove; nor rest\nTo banquet on the blood of hearts by him unstrung,\n\n\"And reft of all their music. Every pain\nBy him inflicted for his own vile joys\nRend his vile self! fruition not again\nShall crown such arts as now the slave employs!\n\n\"But sooth thee, maiden, be thy soul at peace;\nMine be the care to hasten to thy sire\nAnd null thy vow: let every terror cease:\nPerfect success attends thy least desire.\"\n\n\nLIII.\n\nThen lowly bending with seraphic grace\nThe vase he proffered full; and not a gem\nDrawn forth successive from its sparkling place\nBut put to shame the Persian diadem.\n\n\nLIV.\n\nWhile he \"Nay, let me o'er thy white arms bind\nThese orient pearls less smooth; Egla, for thee,\nMy thrilling substance pained by storm and wind,\nI sought them mid the caverns of the sea.\n\n\"And here's a ruby drinking solar rays\nI saw it redden on a mountain tip,\nNow on thy snowy bosom let it blaze:\n'Twill blush still deeper to behold thy lip.\n\n\"Look, for thy hair a garland; every flower\nThat spreads its blossoms, watered by the tear\nOf the sad slave in Babylonian bower,\nMight see its fraid bright hues perpetuate here.\n\n\"For morn's light bell, this changeful amythist\nA sapphire for the violet's tender blue;\nLarge opals for the queen-rose zephyr-kist;\nAnd here are emeralds of ev'ry hue\nFor ev'ry folded bud and leaflet dropped with dew.\n\n\nLV.\n\n\"And here's a diamond cull'd from Indian mine\nTo gift a haughty queen: it might not be--\nI knew a worthier brow, sister divine,\nAnd brought the gem; for well I deem for thee\n\n\"The 'arch-chymic sun' in earth's dark bosom wrought\nTo prison thus a ray; that when dull night\nLours o'er his realms and nature's all seems nought\nShe whom he grieves to leave may still behold his light.\" [FN#18]\n\nThus spake he on, for still the wondering maid\nGazed, as a youthful artist,--rapturously,\nEach perfect, smooth, harmonious limb survey'd\nInsatiate still her beauty-loving eye.\n\n\n[FN#18]  It was not unusual among the nations of the east, to\nimitate flowers with precious stones. The Persian kings about the\ntime of Artaxerxes, sat, when they gave audience under a vine, the\nleaves of which were formed of gold and the grapes of emeralds.\n\n\nLVI.\n\nFor Zophiel wore a mortal form; and blent\nIn mortal form, when perfect, nature shows\nHer all that's fair, enhanc'd; fire, firmament,\nOcean, earth flowers and gems, all there disclose\n\nTheir charms epitomized: the heavenly power\nTo lavish beauty, in this last work crown'd--\nAnd Egla form'd of fibres such as dower\nThose who most feel, forgot all else around.\n\n\nLVII.\n\nHe saw, and softening every wily word\nSpoke in more melting music to her soul,\nAnd o'er her sense as when the fond night bird\nWoos the full rose o'erpowering fragrance stole. (6)\n\nOr when the lillies, sleepier perfume, move,\nDisturbed by too young sister-fawns, that play\nAmong their graceful stalks at morn, and love\nFrom their white cells to lip the dews away.\n\n\nLVIII.\n\nShe strove to speak, but 'twas in murmurs low,\nWhile o'er her cheek, his potent spell confessing,\nDeeper diffused the warm carnation glow\nStill dewy wet with tears her inmost soul confessing.\n\nAs the little reptile, in some lonely grove,\nWith fixed bright eye of facinating flame\nLures on by slow degrees the plaining dove,\nSo nearer--nearer still--the bride and spirit came.\n\n\nLIX.\n\n\"Thou, strong, invisible, invidious sprite,\nNow, from my love my peerless mortal shield--\nWhat exultation for thy power to night!\nLook on thy beauteous charge!--why does she yield?\"\n\n\nLX.\n\nThus secret he, the pearly bracelet holding,\nLending his lip to accents sweetlier bland\nThe light that clipt him, half the maid enfolding\nHalf given--tho' dubious half--her lilly hand.\n\n\nLXI.\n\nSuccess seemed his;--but secret, in the height\nAnd pride of transport; as he set at nought\nAnd taunts her guardian power; infernal light\nShot from his eye, with guilt and treachery fraught.\n\nHaply it was but Nature:--she bestows\nIntuitive preception, and while art\nO'ertasks himself with guile, loves to disclose\nThe dark soul in the eye, to warn th' o'ertrusting heart.\n\n\nLXII.\n\nZophiel, howe'er the warning came, was foiled\nWhat torments burned in his unearthly breast!\nThe while her trembling hand--untouched, recoiled,\nThat, wild, exulting glance, the wily fiend confest.\n\n\nLXIII.\n\nFaintly he spoke--\"'Tis Meles' step I here,\nGuilty thou know'st him--wilt receive him still?\"--\nThe rosy blood driven to her heart by fear\nShe said, in accents faint, but firm, \"I will.\"\n\n\nLXIV.\n\nThe spirit heard; and all again was dark;\nSave, as before, the melancholy flame\nOf the full moon; and faint, unfrequent spark\nWhich from the perfume's burning embers came.\n\nThat stood in vases round the room disposed;\nShuddering and trembling to her couch she crept,--\nSoft oped the door and quick again was closed,\nAnd thro' the pale grey moon-light Meles stept.\n\n\nLXV.\n\nBut ere he yet, in haste, could throw aside\nHis broidered belt and sandals--dread to [illegible]\nEager he sprang--he sought to clasp his bride--\nHe stopt--a groan was heard--he gasped and fell\n\n\nLXVI.\n\nLow by the couch of her who widowed lay\nHer ivory hands convulsive clasped in prayer,\nBut lacking power to move; and when 'twas day,\nA cold black corse was all of Meles, there.\n\n\n\nEND OF THE FIRST CANTO.\n\n\n\n\n\nNOTES.\n\n\n\n(1)  _Wandered malignant o'er the erring earth._\n\n\nThis passage and, indeed the whole poem, is founded on a belief,\nprevalent in the earlier ages of christianity, that all nations,\nexcept the descendents of Abraham, were abandoned by the Almighty, and\nsubjected to the power of daemons or evil spirits. Fontenelle in his\n_\"Histoire des Oracles\"_ makes the following extract from the works\nof the Pagan philosopher Porphyry.\n\n\"Auguste deja vieux and songeant a se choisir un successeur, alla\nconsulter l'oracle de Delphes. L'oracle ne repondoit point, quiqu\n'Auguste n'epargnat pas de sacrifices. A la fin, cependant, il en\ntira cette reponse. L'enfant Hebreu a qui tous les Dieux obeissent,\nme chasse d'ici, and me ronvoie dans les Enfers. Sors de ce temple\nsans parler.\"\n\n\n\n(2)  _While friendly shades the sacred rites enshroud._\n\n\nThe captive Jews, though they sometimes outwardly conformed to the\nreligion of their oppressors, were accustomed to practice their own\nin secret.\n\n\n\n(3)  _When fiercer spirits howled, he but complained._\n\n\nSo Milton. Others more mild retreated to a silent valley singing,\n          With notes angelical, to many a harp,\n          Their own heroic deeds and hapless fall.\n\n\n\n(4)  _Weary he fainted thro' the toilsome hours,\n     And then his mystic nature he sustained\n     On steam of sacrifices, breath of flowers._\n\n\nEusebe dans sa \"Preparation Evangelique\" raporte quantite de\npassages de Porphyre, ou ce philosophe Payen assure que les mauvais\ndemons sont les auteurs des enchantemens, des philtres, et des\nmalefices; que le mensonge est essentiel a leur nature; qu'ils ne\nfont que tromper nos yeux par des spectres et par des fautomes;\nqu'ils excitent en nous la plupart de nos passions; qu'ils ont\nl'ambition de vouloir passer pour des dieux; que leurs corps _aeriens\nse nourissent_ de _fumigations de sand repandu et de la graisse des\nsacrifices;_ qu'il n'y a qu'eux qui se melent de rendre des oracles,\net a qui cette fonction pleine de tromperic soit tombee en partage.\n\n                              _Fontenelle, Historie des Oracles._\n\n\n                                        _Still true\n          To one dear theme, my full soul flowing o'er\n          Would find no room for thought of what it knew\n     (5)  Nor picturing forfeit transport curse me more._\n\n\nSi l'homme (says a modern writer) constant dans ses affections,\npouvoit saus cesse fournir a un sentiment renouvele sans cesse, sans\ndoute la solitude and l'amour l'egaleroient a Dieu meme; car ce sont\nla les deux eternel plaisirs du gran Etre.\n\nA celebrated female, (Saint Theresa) used to describe Satan as an\nunhappy being, who never could know what it was to love.\n\n\n\n(6)  _And o'er her sense as when the fond night bird\n     Woos the full rose o'erpowering fragrance stole._\n\n\nThis allusion must be familiar to every general reader of poetry.\n\n  \"The nightingale if he sees the rose becomes intoxicated; he lets\ngo from his hand the reins prudence.\"\n          _Fable of the Gardener and Nightingale._\n\n\nLady Montague also translates a song, if my memory does not deceive\nme, thus,\n\n  \"The nightingale now hovers amid the flowers, her passion is to\nseek roses.\"\n\n\nAnd from the poet Hafiz,\n\n  \"When the roses wither and the bower loses its sweetness, you have\nno longer the tale of the nightingale.\"\n\n\nIndeed the rose, in Oriental poetry, is seldom mentioned without her\nparamour the nightingale, which gives reason to suppose that this\nbird, in those countries where it was first celebrated, had really\nsome natural fondness for the rose; or perhaps for some insect which\ntook shelter in it. In Sir W. Jones' translation of the Persian\nfable, of \"The Gardener and Nightingale\" we meet with the following\ndistich.\n\n  _\"I know not what the rose says under his lips, that he brings\nback the helpless Nightingales with their mournful notes.\n\n  One day the Gardener, according to his established custom, went to\nview the roses; he saw a plaintive nightingale rubbing his head on\nthe leaves of the roses and tearing asunder, with his sharp bill,\nthat volume adorned with gold.\"_\n\n\nAnd Gelaleddin Ruzbehar,\n\n  _\"While the nightingale sings thy praises with a loud voice, I am\nall ear like the stalk of the rosetree.\"_\n\n\nPliny, however, in his delightful description of this bird, says\nnothing, I believe, about the rose.\n\n\n\n(7) Les Perses semblent etre les premiers hommes connus de nous qui\nparlerent des anges comme d'huissiers celestes, et de porteurs\nd'ordres.\n\n_Voltaire, Essai sur les moeurs et l'esprit des nations._\n\n\n\n\n\nIn composing this ode, which was done four years ago, the writer had\nnot the most remote idea, of complimenting any one. Without the\nslightest pretensions to \"connoiseurship\" she has only described the\nabsolute effect of the pictures alluded to, on an individual, and\nwould only be considered in the light of an insent warming itself in\nthe sun, and grateful for his pervasive influence.\n\n\n\n\n\nODE.\n\n\nThou who wert born of Psyche and of Love\nAnd fondly nurst on Poesy's warm breast\n          Painting, oh, power adored!\n          My country's sons have poured\nTo thee their orisons; and thou hast blest\nTheir votive sighs, nor vainly have they strove.\n\nThou who art wont to soothe the varied pain\nThat ceaseless throbs at absent lover's heart,\n          Who first bestowed thine aid\n          On the young Rhodian maid [FN#19]\nWhen doomed, from him whose love was life, to part,\nFrom a lone bard accept an humble heartfelt strain.\n\n\n[FN#19]  I do not positively recollect whether the incident, here\ndescribed is supposed to have transpired at Rhodes, Corinth, or some\nother place, and have not, at present, the means for ascertaining.\nPainting is called the Rhodian Art, but I know not if on account of\nits having been first invented there or for the eminence of the\npainters which Rhodes produced; which was so great that an\nillustrious enemy refrained from burning the city, which he had in\nhis power, out of respect to the genius of Protogenes one of its most\ncelebrated artists.\n\n\n'Twas the last night the idol youth might stay--\nE'en now, to bear him from the rosy isle, [FN#20]\n          The galley waits: he sleeps\n          She silent wakes and weeps--\nWatches his lips that in light dreaming smile--\nTwines her soul round his charms and dreads the coming day.\n\nThe dazzling drops her pitious eyes that blind\nHushing her struggling sobs she wiped away:--\n          Her tapers paly light\n          Fell on the marble white,\nBeside the couch where half reclined he lay\nAnd of his beauteous face the shadow well defined.\n\nLoved deity, then first thou cam'st on earth!--\nPity for truth in sorrow, called thee here!\n          Sudden the fair, inspired,\n          With a new thought was fired\nHer hand urged on by hope--yet, breathing not for fear--\nShe traced the unreal shade--'twas hers--an art had birth.\n\n\n[FN#20]  Rhodes, in the Greek tongue, signifies _rose_ or roses.\nAfter being made the scene of the loves of Venus and Apollo, the isle\n(says Demoustier) became an enchanting garden, and soon took the name\nof the flowers it produced.\n\n\nBy dearest, tenderest feelings still allured,\nThou sought'st our wilds far blooming o'er the deep\n          Pleased with the soft employ\n          A fair haired cherub boy\nO'er a more helpless child his watch to keep\nWas placed; and from his sports the long restraint endured.\n\nFair as the hues of heaven, the innocent\nLay like a phantom born of some mild soul;\n          A drop, for it had wept\n          A moment ere it slept,\nO'er its light vermil cheek was seen to roll\nAnd its young guardian's heart drank beauty as he leant.\n\nThat nameless wish to nought but genius known.--\nIndefinite--but in each fibre felt,\n          Whispered. The boy elate\n          Burned to perpetuate\nThe full pervasive bliss; enrapt he knelt--\nThou saw'st--a pencil's by--and infant West's thine own.\n\nSoon the plumed savage, from his leafy home\nEmerging, saw and loved the gifted child,\n          And soon, beneath their care,\n          His hands the tints prepare,\nThat strain their shapely limbs, in grandeur wild\nAs thro' their arching woods, the desert warriors roam. [FN#21]\n\n\n[FN#21]  Sir Benjamin West, when a child, was presented with the\nprimitive colours by an Indian. See Galt's Life of West.\n\n\nPlease he repaid their plans, nor those alone;\nSped by his strength the painted arrow flew;\n          And oft the soaring bird\n          For shape, or hue preferred,\nTo make a model for his art he knew\nWhile sovereign Nature saw--and smiled upon her throne.\n\nBold Science, who earth's caverned depths explores,\nAnd soars triumphant 'mid new worlds of light,--\n          Lays bare the heaving heart [FN#22]\n          Nor suffers life to part--\nLures the red lightning from its stormy height--\nOft, goddess kneels to thee to save his precious stores.\n\n\n[FN#22]  An operation was performed at Paris by M. Richerande in\nwhich the heart of a patient, who afterwards recovered, was laid bare.\n\n\nThe rough-browed warrior on the midnight deck\nWhile stealing softness thro' his pulses glides,\n          By the moon's pensive rays\n          Regards with lengthened gaze,\nThe pictured form his scarry bosom hides\nBy day; that tho' death grasp, hangs smiling at his neck.\n\nWhen fate has torn from the fond mother's arms\nThe tender hope her bosom fed, to thee\n          She flies;--and ere decay\n          Can mar his beauteous prey\nHer arching eyes, amid their grief, can see,\nStill dawning bright, to them, its early-blighted charms.\n\nThe generous youth who, fired by love of fame,\nA victim at her bloody altars fell;\n          To the beloved ones reft,\n          By aid of thee, has left\nHis form, his lip, his ardent glance, to tell\nHow fair was he on earth who left it for a name.\n\nThe patriot--here a moment let my strain\nTremble before thy Stuart--who but he\n          Could bid mild Washington--\n          His god-loved labours done--\nThus sit before us breathing majesty,\nAnd, in his deep blue eye, still life and soul retain?\n\nMethinks, the while I gaze, each graceful line\nSo light imprinted on his forehead fair,\n          Where Wisdom sits serene\n          Of every sense the queen,\nSeems as an embryo empire still were there,\nWhile still his ample breast swells with the vast design.\n\nAnd fondly o'er the mellow tints I pause\nOf her, whose vivid touch shames not her sire;\n          Bold Genius in his pride\n          Has marked her as his bride,\nOn his bright pinions bids her soul aspire,\nNor pay the tribute due by tardier Nature's laws. [FN#23]\n\n\n[FN#23]  While composing this ode the writer was shown a beautiful\nspecimen from the hand of a young daughter of the celebrated Stuart,\nwho entirely devoted herself to the art.\n\n\nBut guard thee well young J--e: in his embrace\nHow many seal with death their ectasy!\n          Too deep, intense, and wild,\n          For one so late a child,\nI fear me lest the proffered transport be\nThat every earthlier joy absorbent would efface.\n\nSoft is thy form--amid the unpent air,\nPay rosy exercise her just demands:\n          Tho' heaven thy lone hours woo\n          Earth still demands her due;\nGay health to guard e'en genius' palace stands--\nAnd when she takes her flight--e'en genius, must despair.\n\nNor those alone doomed to incarnate birth\nPainting, death-baffler, is it thine to save!\n          The heavenly shapes that flit,\n          When the entranced fit,\nIs on, and the charmed soul forgets its earth,\nThou bidst to earthly eyes their sky-dipt vestments wave.\n\nThe radiant visions Fancy's wand uprears\nWhen Poesy around has spread her spell,\n          Like summer flowrets dies\n          Refresh the enchanted skies,\nWhere, soft as air, and lovelier for her fears,\nBright in her golden robes flies fair-haired Florimell. [FN#24]\n\n\n[FN#24]  The flight of Florimell, from a scene in Spencer's Faery\nQueen, is an exquisite little picture by Allston, in the possession\nof a private gentleman.\n\n\nThe miracles, in holy record kept,\nDone--ere one cheering ray of distant light\n          Thro' death's dark portals shown,\n          At thy command alone,\nStill, still--reacted meet--the astonished sight,\nTho' rolling ages o'er the scene have swept.\n\nIn this far distant land, which the great deep\nPerchance embosomed, when that dust was rife,\n          The pale unconscious dead\n          On the strown relics laid\nOf old Elisha, in his passing sleep,\nStill, at the hallowed touch, starts back to warmth and life. [FN#25]\n\n\n[FN#25]  Every one must recollect the sublime picture here alluded to.\n\n\nSweet, when the soul is weary of the ills\nThat stern reality presents, to dwell\n          On beauteous forms: they smooth\n          The ruffled sense, and sooth\nThe heart with soft perfection; till a spell\nBlends with its troublous pulse, and all its achings stills.\n\nAnd who can look nor own the pencil's power\nWhere tender Ariadne, happy yet, [FN#26]\n          Lies in a dream of bliss?\n          The last half-pitying kiss,\nBy falsehood given, her sleeping lip has met--\nThat still seems hovering there like Zephyr o'er a flower.\n\n\n[FN#26]  Vanderlyn's Ariadne.\n\n\nThe dawn breaks slowly o'er the distant main,\nTo come no more her ingrate hero flies;\n          While thoughts confiding speak\n          Upon her mantling cheek--\nIllusion chains the sense--in lowest sighs\nWhispering--we fear to see her wake to pain.\n\nBut whither wandering? whatsoe'er has gained\nLong conning book and heart the white-haired sage;\n          Cause and remote effect\n          In living semblance dect,\nThe truths divine of many a moral page\nThy hand, harmonious Peale, hath at a glance explained.\n\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS.\n\n\n\nTo meet a friendship such as mine\nSuch feelings must thy heart refine\nAs seldom mortal mind gives birth,\n'Tis love, without a stain of earth,\n                    _Fratello del mio cor._\n\nTho' friendship be its earthly name\nAll pure, from highest heaven, it came\n'Tis never felt for more than one,\nAnd scorns to dwell with Venus' son\n                    _Fratello del mio cor._\n\nHim let it view not, or it flies\nLike tender hues of morning-skies,\nOr morn's sweet flower, of purple glow.\nWhen sunny beams too ardent grow\n                    _Fratello del mio cor._\n\nIt's food is looks, its nectar, sighs,\nIts couch the lip, its throne the eyes\nThe soul its breath; and so possest,\nHeaven's raptures reign in mortal breast.\n                    _Fratello del mio cor._\n\n\n\n\n\nON THE DEATH OF A LADY.\n\n\nThy home seemed not of earth--so blest--\n  But there has fall'n a shaft of fate--\nThe dove is stricken; and the nest\n  She warmed and cheered is desolate.\n\nBut fairest not for thee, we mourn:\n  Blest from thy birth, thou still art so--\nThe tear must dew thine early urn\n  For him whom thou hast taught to know\n\nThe zest of joys--complete, as knows\n  Thy vital flame, the pang that tost\nAnd changed thee past, where now it glows--\n  Knowing, yet feeling all is lost.\n\nThere is a flower of tender white\n  And, on its spotless bosom, play\nThe moon's soft beams, one lovely night;\n  But when appears the morning ray\n\n'Tis shut and withered--even now\n  Around your lime I see it wave; [FN#27]\n'Tis pure, and fresh, and fair, as thou--\n  And sinks in beauty to its grave.\n\n\n[FN#27]  The white convolvulus; it blossoms just after sun-set, and\nis seen in great abundance entwining the lime-hedges, about the\nplantations of Cuba.","title":"Zophiel : $b A poem","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":11429}