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Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven | ||
CANTO FIRST. GROVE OF ACACIAS.
I.
Shade of Columbus! here thy relics rest;Here, while these numbers to the desert ring,
The selfsame breeze that passes o'er thy breast
Salutes me as with panting heart I sing.
II.
Madoc! my ancient fathers' bones reposeWhere their bold harps thy country's bards inwreathed;
And this warm blood once coursed the veins of those
Who flourished where thy first faint sigh was breathed.
III.
Heroes departed both! if still ye loveThese realms to which on earth ye oped the way,
Amid the joys that crown your deeds above
One moment pause, and deign to bless my lay.
IV.
When the first beauteous mother of our race
First oped her mild eyes to the new light-beam,
And in the lucid wave first saw her own fair face,
These western solitudes? or are they new
Only to men? Was this sweet wilderness,
This distant world, then visited by you?
V.
If ye then knew, or haply if ye hereCome wandering now, oh, listen! nor refuse
Your unseen harps a moment to my ear.
Of one like you I'd sing: whisper my trembling Muse!
VI.
Rest in my wild retreat! The solar firesTell on this glowing cheek their fervid powers;
Yet 'tis the ocean's breath my lip respires,
Grown fragrant in its course o'er thousand shrubs and flowers.
VII.
When restless spirits raised a war in heaven.
Great was the crime; and, banished thence, they fell
To depths unknown, yet kept the potence, given
Of feeble mortals, who but form a grade
'Twixt spirits and the courser of the chase.
Man, thing of heaven and earth, why thou wert made
With thy mysterious mind, and lent their powers
The good to benefit, the ill to hurt.
Dark fiends assailed thee in thy dangerous hours;
And often, when in heaven they might have staid,
Came down to watch by some just hero's side,
Or meet the aspiring love of some high-gifted maid.
VIII.
Blest were those days! Can these dull ages boastAught to compare? Though now no more beguile,
Chained in their darkling depths, the infernal host,
Who would not brave a fiend to share an angel's smile?
IX.
In woe the embraces of their youth had past,
And blest their paler years one daughter: fair
She flourished, like a lonely rose, the last
The early love of song, the sigh that broke
From her young lip, the best beloved employ,
What womanhood disclosed, in infancy bespoke
X.
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.
XI.
The impulse given by heaven's great Artisan,
Alike to man and worm, mere spring, whereby
The distant wheels of life, while time endures, roll on,
About the soul their all-important place;
That feed her fires, empower her fainting will,
And write the God on feeble mortal's face.
XII.
Yet anger or revenge, envy or hate,The damsel knew not: when her bosom burned,
And injury darkened the decrees of fate,
She had more piteous sighed to see that pain returned.
XIII.
Amid their virtue's wild luxuriance hid,
Such germs all mortal bosoms must immure,
Which sometimes show their poisonous heads unbid,—
Self-knowledge wept the abasing truth to know;
And innate pride, that queen of noble minds,
Crushed them indignant ere a bud could grow.
XIV.
And such, even now, in earliest youth are seen;But would they live, with armor more deform
Their breasts made soft by too much love must screen:
“The bird that sweetest sings can least endure the storm.”
XV.
The melting tone, the blood suffusive, proved
The soul that in them spoke could spurn at fear
Of death or danger; and, had those she loved
Unmoved as some fair-sculptured statue, while
The dome that guards it earth's convulsions rude
Are shivering, meeting ruin with a smile.
XVI.
Told her blue eyes; though oft the tender lid
Drooped like a noonday lily, languid, white,
And trembling, all save love and lustre, hid:
Like some Madonna in his soul, so sainted;
But, opening in their energy, they beamed
As tasteful Grecians their Minerva painted:
Silky as those on little children seen,
Yet thick as Indian fleece, her ringlets fell,
Nor owned Pactolus' sands a brighter sheen.
XVII.
And now, full near, the hour unwished for drew,When Sèphora had hoped to see her wed,
And, for 'twould else expire, impatient grew
To renovate her race from beauteous Egla's bed.
XVIII.
But stranger-youths had asked her of her sire
With gifts and promise fair. He could withstand
All save her tears; and, hearkening her desire,
From her a vow, that, when the twentieth year
Twenty years, among the Spartans, was the age required by the law for the marriage of women; and, in whatever climate they may live, it is seldom that they attain their full height and proportion before that age. If this custom of the Spartans could be everywhere observed, it is probable the strength and beauty of the race would be improved by it.
Its full fair finish o'er her beauty threw,
If what her fancy fed on came not near,
Of her light-giver hearken; and her life
Would hush each idle wish, and learn to be a wife.
XIX.
And lotted out for every household maid
Her light and pleasant toil, ere yet the sun
Was high, fair Egla to a woody shade
Their friendly heads, in thick profusion planted,
And with a thousand tendrils clasped and twined;
And when, at fervid noon, all nature panted,
Inviting rest, its mossy pillow flung;
And here the full cerulean passion-flower,
Climbing among the leaves, its mystic symbols hung.
XX.
And though the sun had gained his utmost height,Just as he oped its vivid folds at dawn,
Looked still that tenderest, frailest child of light,
By shepherds named “the glory of the morn.”
XXI.
The rose is pleasure,—felt and known as such;
Soon past, but real; tasted while it glows:
But thou, too bright and pure for mortal touch,
Or see, unless with Fancy's lip and eye
When, maddened by her mystic spells, we waste
Life on a thought, and rob reality.
XXII.
Here, too, the lily raised its snow-white head;And myrtle-leaves, like friendship when sincere,
Most sweet when wounded, all around were spread;
And, though from noon's fierce heat the wild deer fled,
A soft warm twilight reigned impervious here.
XXIII.
Tranquil and lone in such a light to be,How sweet to sense and soul! the form recline
Forgets it e'er felt pain; and Reverie,
Sweet mother of the Muses, heart and soul are thine!
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 noonday, 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 odor 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 a thick mass of leaves above); and the soft, peculiar light which the intense ray of the sun, thus impeded, produces,—have altogether such an effect, that one seems involuntarily to forget every thing but the present, and it requires a strong effort to rise and leave the place.
XXIV.
And sat to tune her lute: but all night long
Quiet had from her pillow flown; and thought,
Feverish and tired, sent forth unseemly throng
One song reluctant, ere, advancing quick
Through the fresh leaves, Sèphora's form she knew,
And duteous rose to meet; but fainting, sick,
Sought out at such an hour, it half divined;
And seated now beside, with downcast eye
And throbbing pulse, she met the pressure kind,
Though marred by grief and time, with soothing word,
Solicitous, and gently serious air,
The purpose why she hither came preferred.
XXV.
Not oft, lest they should pain thee. I have dealt
Not rudely with thy fancies, yet my breast
Retains the wish most vehemently felt.
Thou still wouldst live in virgin state thy sire
Has prest thee to impart, quick in thine eye
Semblance of hope has played; fain to transpire,
Of heart-blood eloquent alone would tell,
In the warm language of a rebel blush,
What thy less treacherous tongue had guarded well.
XXVI.
“Is the long frequent day spent lonely here?Or haply, rather, hath some stranger youth—
Distrust my wisdom, but regard my truth.
XXVII.
These shrubs and vines new-planted near this spot,
I sat me, tired with pleasant toil, and whiled
Away the time with lute, and often thought
Which thou so oft, when I had climbed thy knee,
Wouldst sing of, weeping, through my mind had been
In fair succession; when from yon old tree
And found an aged man: worn and oppressed
He seemed with toil, and said, in whispers faint,
‘O little maiden, how I am distressed!
A drop of water and a cake: I die
Of thirst and hunger; yet my sorrowing way
May tread once more, if thou my need supply.’
XXVIII.
“A long time missing from thy gentle arms,It chanced that day was sent me, in the shade,
New bread, a cake of figs, and wine of palms,
“The palm is a very common plant in this country (Media), 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 whole of this plant, were applied. Nothing can be more curious and interesting than the natural history of the palm-tree.
Mingled with water, sweet with honey made.
XXIX.
“These brought I to him; tried to raise his head;Held to his lip the cup; and, while he quaffed,
Upon my garment wiped the tears that sped
Adown his silvery beard, and mingled with the draught.
XXX.
And in this guise did bless me: ‘Mayst thou be
A crown to him who weds thee! In a land
Far distant dwells a captive. Hearken me,
O'er broad Euphrates' steepest banks a child
Fled from his youthful nurse's arms: in play
Elate he bent him o'er the brink, and smiled
The keen, wild anguish of that scene can tell?
He bent him o'er the brink, and in their view,
But ah! too far beyond their aid, he fell.
XXXI.
The women among all the 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 colored, and decorated with false locks. The first Cæsar 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 are commemorated in Holy Writ. The modern Oriental ladies also set the greatest value on their hair, which they braid and perfume. Thus the poet Hafiz, whom Sir William Jones styles the Anacreon of Persia:—
“These 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 out the earth that hides his corse.”
Achilles clipped his yellow locks, and then threw them as a sacrifice upon the funeral pyre of Patroclus. The women of the aborigines of America cut off locks of their long black hair, and strew them upon the graves of their husbands.
Bestrewed the ambient gale; deep rolled the stream,
And swallowed the fair child: no succor there!
They, women,—whither look?—who to redeem
Approached a stranger boy. Aside he flung,
Quick as a thought, his quiver and his bow;
And, parted by his limbs, the sparkling billows sung.
XXXII.
“‘They clung to an old palm and watched, nor breathNor word dared utter; while the refluent blood
Left on each countenance the hue of death;
Oped lip and far-strained eye spoke worse than death endured.
XXXIII.
“‘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 dark, deep waters curled.
XXXIV.
“‘Then Hope groaned forth her last, and to despairYielded with shrieks; but ere the echo wild
Had ceased to thrill, restored to light and air,
He climbs, he gains the rock, and holds alive the child!
XXXV.
Of Babylonia's sovereign: soon was placed
Before his throne the youth who so had won
From death the royal heir. A captive graced
And panting for renown, blushing and praised,
The stripling stood, and, closely pressed, would crave
Nought but a place mid warlike men: yet raised
So light with airy hope, his graceful feet
Scarce touched the marble as he trod; while, heaving
With plans to please his sire, his heart more warmly beat.
XXXVI.
“If he, our only child, be far away,
Or slain in war, how shall our years be stayed?
Friendless and old, where is the hand to lay
He saw would not be calmed, he did not part,
But lived in low estate to dry her tears,
And crushed the full ripe wish at his exulting heart.’
XXXVII.
“The old man ceased: ere I could speak, his faceGrew more than mortal fair; a mellow light,
Mantling around him, filled the shady place;
And, while I wondering stood, he vanished from my sight.
XXXVIII.
Thou'dst deem some spirit guiled me,—disapprove,—
Perchance forbid my customed wandering here.
But, whenceso'er the vision, I have strove
Kindred afar, and captive: oh! my mother,
Should he, my heaven announced, exist, return,
And meet me here, lost!—wedded to another!”
XXXIX.
Then Sèphora answered, “In the city whereOur distant kindred dwell, blood has been shed.
Fond dreamer, had thy visioned love been there,
Ere now he's sleeping with the silent dead.
XL.
“Or doth he live, he knows not, would not know,(Thralled, dead to thee, in some fair Syrian's arms,)
Who pines for him afar in fruitless woe,
And wastes upon a thought-love life and charms.
XLI.
“'Tis as a vine of Galilee should say,‘Culterer, I reck not thy support: I sigh
For a young palm-tree of Euphrates; nay,
Or let me him intwine, or in my blossom die.’
XLII.
“Thy heart is set on joys it ne'er can prove,And, panting ingrate, scorns the blessings given.
Hope not from dust-formed man a seraph's love,
Or days on earth like to the days of heaven!
XLIII.
And not of thee unworthy, lives and glows.
Nay, chase the dread that in thy looks I see,
Nor make it taste of anguish to disclose
When to the altar by thy father reared,
As we went forth with sacrifice and vow,
A victim-dove escaped, and there appeared
He let an arrow glance; and to a tree
Nailed fast the little truant by the wing,
And brought it, scarcely bleeding, back to thee.
XLIV.
And pretty deed he had done, were theme of praise,
Though blent with fear that stranger should espy
Thy lonely haunts. When in the sunny rays
Around his pillar neck,—‘'Tis pity he,’
Thou saidst, ‘in all the comeliness and might
Of perfect man,—'tis pity he should be
He tempers pride with courtesy! A flower
Drops honey when he speaks. His sandalled feet
Are light as antelope. He stands a tower.’
XLV.
For the much love that day conceived for thee,
To be a false idolater no more.
'Tis Meles, late returned from embassy
Of Media. Bethink thee, Egla: muse
Upon the good, union like this may bring
On thee and thine. Yet, if thy soul refuse,
Even on the breast that nourished thee, and ne'er
Distrest thee or compelled: this bosom still,
E'en shouldst thou blight its dearest hopes, will share,
'Twill quench my waning years, if reckless thou
Of what I not command, but only crave,
Canst see me pine, and disregard thy vow.”
XLVI.
Then Egla: “Think not, kindest, I forget,Who have received such love, how much is due
From me to thee. The Mede I'll wed; but yet—
Why will these tears gush forth?—thus—in thy presence too!”
XLVII.
Grief had its way; then saw her gently laid,
And bade her, kissing her blue eyes, beguile
Slumbering the fervid noon. Her leafy bed
Sleepless had been the night. Her weary sense
Could now no more. Lone in the still retreat,
Wounding the flowers to sweetness more intense,
Swell till 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 of rest.
XLVIII.
Save one sweet cheek,—which the cool velvet turf
Had touched too rude, though all with blooms besprent,—
One soft arm pillowed. Whiter than the surf
By the dark, glossy, odorous shrubs relieved,
What 'twas they canopied;
This kind of acacia, or mimosa, particularly belongs to Abyssinia: it is said to incline its branches, as if sensible, when any one seeks its shade. The Arabians love it as a friend. A low species of mimosa, which grows profusely in this island (Cuba), is extremely sensitive: it not only shuts its pretty leaves like a closed fan when touched, but the whole branch which supports them stoops, and clings closely to the main stalk.
The affection of “Aswad” for a mimosa that bent over him in the gardens of Shedad or Irem forms a particularly beautiful passage in “Thalaba.”
Her heart yet incomposed; a fillet through
Peeped softly azure; while with tender moan,
As if of bliss, Zephyr her ringlets blew
Kissed the soft violet on her temples warm,
And eyebrow just so dark might well define
Its flexile arch, throne of expression's charm.
XLIX.
And 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;
Though passion and its pain were lulled to rest;
And ever and anon a piteous sob
Shook the pure arch expansive o'er her breast.
L.
Save that, a perfect peace was sovereign thereO'er fragrance, sound, and beauty; all was mute:
Only a dove bemoaned her absent fere,
Or fainting breezes swept the slumberer's lute.
LI.
Zóphiël, a spirit sometimes ill, but, ere
He fell, a heavenly angel. The faint flame
Of dying embers on an altar where
And sacrificed to the great unseen God,
While friendly shades the sacred rites enshroud,
The spirit saw. His inmost soul was awed,
Once his in heaven. Deep in a darkling grot
He sat him down, the melancholy noise
Of leaf and creeping vine accordant with his thought.
LII.
Ere yet 'twas his to roam the pleasant earth.
His heaven-invented harp he still retained,
The invention of the harp was ascribed by the Hebraic historians to Jubal, who, as he lived before the deluge, enjoyed, in common with others of his race, the privilege of conversing with angels, from whom he may be supposed to have received his art. That Mercury to whom the Grecians ascribed the invention of the lyre, according to the belief of the Christian fathers, might have been the son of a guilty angel.
Though tuned to bliss no more, and had its birth
The first drear song of woe; and torment wrung
The restless spirit less when he might lift
His plaining voice, and frame the like as now he sung.
LIII.
Despair's low notes thy dread effects to tell:
And, but for thee, there had not been a hell!
Angels, entranced, beneath thy banners ranged,
And straight were fiends; hurled from the shrinking field,
They waked in agony to wail the change.
The world's fair mistress first inhaled thy breath;
To lot of higher beings learnt to aspire,
Dared to attempt, and doomed the world to death.
The fiercely struggling soul where peace once dwelt,
But perished; feverish hope; drear discontent,
Impoisoning all possest,—oh! I have felt
Scarce 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,
The gem, the ore, the marble breathing life,
The pencil's colors, all in earth had slept:
Now see them mark with death his victim's strife!
Baffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves;
And reigns for ages o'er the world he loves.
Thou goad'st him on; and when too keen the smart,
His highest dole he'd barter but for peace,
Food thou wilt have, or feast upon his heart.”
LIV.
Thus Zóphiël still; though now the infernal crewHad gained by sin a privilege in the world,
Allayed their torments in the cool night-dew,
And by the dim starlight again their wings unfurled.
LV.
And now, regretful of the joys his birthHad promised, deserts, mounts, and streams he crossed,
To find, amid the loveliest spots on earth,
Faint semblance of the heaven he had lost.
LVI.
And oft, by unsuccessful searching pained,Weary he fainted through the toilsome hours;
And then his mystic nature he sustained
On steam of sacrifices, breath of flowers.
“Eusèbe, dans sa ‘Préparation Evangélique,’ rapporte quantité de passages de Porphyre, où ce philosophe payen assure que les mauvais démons sont les auteurs des enchantemens, des philtres, et des maléfices; que le mensonge est essentiel à leur nature; qu'ils ne font que tromper nos yeux par des spectres et par des fantômes; qu'ils excitent en nous la plupart de nos passions; qu'ils ont l'ambition de vouloir passer pour des dieux; que leurs corps aëriens se nourissent de fumigations de sang répandu et de la graisse des sacrifices; qu'il n'y a qu'eux qui se mêlent de rendre des oracles, et à qui cette fonction pleine de tromperie soit tombée en partage.”—
Fontenelle, Histoire des Oracles.It is related also, in the “Caherman Nameh,” that the Peris fed upon precious odors brought them by their companions when imprisoned and hung up in cages by the Dives.
Most of the Oriental superstitions harmonize perfectly with the belief of the fathers; and what is there in philosophy, natural or moral, to disprove the existence of beings similar to those described by the latter?
LVII.
Sometimes he gave out oracles,This passage accords with a belief prevalent in the earlier ages of Christianity, that all nations, except the descendants of Abraham, were abandoned by the Almighty, and subjected to the power of demons or evil spirits. Fontenelle, in his “Histoire des Oracles,” makes the following extract from the works of the Pagan philosopher Porphyry: “Auguste déjà vieux et songeant à se choisir un successeur alla consulter l'Oracle de Delphes. L'Oracle ne répondait point, quoiqu' Auguste n'épargnât pas des sacrifices. A la fin, cependant, il en tira cette réponse. L'enfant Hebreu à qui tous les Dieux obéissent, me chasse d'ici, et me renvoie dans les Enfers. Sors de ce temple sans parler!”
With mortal folly; resting on the shrines;
Or, all in some fair sibyl's form infused,
Spoke from her trembling lips, or traced her mystic lines.
LVIII.
To where more precious shrubs diffuse their balms;
And gliding through the thickly-woven shade,
Where the soft captive lay in all her charms,
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,
Wandering, and miserably panting, fain
To glean a joy e'en from a place like this:
The thought of what he once had been was pain
A sigh! Surprised, another glance he took;
Then doubting, fearing, softly coming near,
He ventured to her side, and dared to look;
Refreshing, looked sweet Eve, with purpose fell,
When first Sin's sovereign gazed on her, and strife
Had with his heart, that grieved with arts of hell,
Most beautiful of all in earth or heaven!
Oh, could I quaff for aye that fragrant breath!
Couldst thou, or being like to thee, be given
To 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.
“Si l'homme” (says a modern writer), “constant dans ses affection, pouvait sans cesse fournir à un sentiment renouvelé sans cesse, sans doute la solitude et l'amour l'égaleraient à Dieu même; car ce sont là les deux éternels plaisirs du grand Etre.”
St. Theresa used to describe the Prince of Darkness as an unhappy being who never could know what it was to love.
LIX.
“But, oh, severest curse! I cannot beIn what I love blest e'en the little span
(With all a spirit's keen capacity
For bliss) permitted the poor insect, man.
LX.
Like some sweet floweret, mildewed in my arms,
Withered to hideousness as foul as sin,
Grew fearful hags; and then, with potent charm
To force me to their will. Down the damp grave
Loathing I went at Endor, and uptorn
Brought back the dead, when tortured Saul did crave
Young slumberer, that dread witch, when, I arrayed
In lovely shape, to meet my guileful kiss,
She yielded first her lip. And thou, sweet maid!—
What is't I see?—a recent tear has strayed,
And left its stain upon her cheek of bliss.
LXI.
Or by rude mortal wronged. So let it prove
Meet for my purpose: 'mid these blossoms hid,
I'll gaze, and, when she wakes, with all that love
A fond, full heart, in love's soft surgery skilled,
Should seek it when 'tis sore; allay its pain
With balm by pity pressed: 'tis all his own so healed!
LXII.
“She may be mine a little year, e'en fairAnd sweet as now. Oh respite! while possessed
I lose the dismal sense of my despair:
But then—I will not think upon the rest
LXIII.
Of fleeting life? What doom from power divine
I bear eternally! Pity!—away!
Wake, pretty fly! and, while thou mayst, be mine,
With shining silk, and in the cruel snare
Seest the fond bird intrapped, but for his plumes,
To work thy robes, or twine amidst thy hair.”
LXIV.
But draws him back restrained: a higher power,
That loved her, and would keep her innocent,
Repelled his evil touch. And from her bower,
Half baffled, followed, hovering on unseen,
Till Meles, fair to see, and nobly dight,
Received his pensive bride. Gentle of mien,
Rings of refulgent ore; low and apart
Murmuring, “So, beauteous captive! shall thy charms
For ever thrall and clasp thy captive's heart.”
LXV.
The air's light touch seemed softer as she movedIn languid resignation: his black eye
Spoke in quick glances how she was approved,
Who shrank reluctant from its ardency.
LXVI.
'Twas sweet to look upon the goodly pairIn their contrasted loveliness. Her height
Might almost vie with his: but heavenly fair,
Of soft proportion, she, and sunny hair;
He cast in manliest mould, with ringlets murk as night.
LXVII.
And oft her drooping and resigned blue eyeShe'd wistful raise to read his radiant face:
But, then, why shrunk her heart?—a secret sigh
Told her it most required what there it could not trace.
LXVIII.
Now fair had fallen the night. The damsel musedAt her own window, in the pearly ray
Of the full moon: her thoughtful soul infused
Thus in her words, left lone a while to pray:—
LXIX.
In blest obedience, like to those divine,
Who to her loved, her earthly lord can say,
‘God is thy law, most just, and thou art mine!’
Let the storm beat, his arms her shelter kind,—
And feels no need to blanch her rosy cheek
With thoughts befitting his superior mind.
Then knows to pluck away pain's keenest dart;
Or bid love catch it ere its goal be gained,
And steal its venom ere it reach his heart.
For this the heathen, unsufficed with thought,
Moulds him an idol of the glittering ore,
And shrines his smiling goddess, marble-wrought.
O Sire who mak'st yon orb-strewn arch thy throne;
That sees thee in thy noblest work below
Shine undefaced, adored, and all her own!
Go to thy grave!—I feel thee blasted now.
Give me fate's sovereign, well to bear the fate
Thy pleasure sends: this, my sole prayer, allow!”
LXX.
Seemed, as it sought amid the lamps of night
The God her soul addressed; but other view,
Far different, sudden from that pensive plight
Burst the new day-star when the Eternal bid,
Appeared, and glowing filled the dusky room,
As 'twere a brilliant cloud. The form it hid
Save a slight scarf, his beauty bare, and white
As cygnet's bosom on some silver stream;
Or young Narcissus, when, to woo the light
And near the maid he comes with timid gaze,
And gently fans her with his full-spread wings,
Transparent as the cooling gush that plays
Still vanishing, returning, blending, changing,
About their tender mystic texture glint
Like colors o'er the full-blown bubble ranging
And laugh to see it vanish; yet, so bright,
More like—and even that were faint compare—
As shaped from some new rainbow. Rosy light,
Precedes of their Aurora, clipped him round,
Retiring as he moved; and evening's star
Shamed not the diamond coronal that bound
Expression dear to her he wooed, he sought;
And in his hand he held a little vase
Of virgin gold, in strange devices wrought.
LXXI.
Love-toned he spoke: “Fair sister, 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.
LXXII.
“Say, doth thy soul, in all its sweet excess,Rush to this bridegroom, smooth and falsehood-taught?
Ah, no! thou yield'st thee to a feared caress,
And strugglest with a heart that owns him not.
LXXIII.
“Send back this Meles to Euphrates: thereIs no reluctance. Withering by that stream,
Tell him there droops a flower that needs his care.
But why, at such an hour, so base a theme?
LXXIV.
“I'll tell thee secrets of the nether earthAnd highest heaven! Or dost some service crave?
Declare thy bidding, best of mortal birth:
I'll be thy wingèd messenger, thy slave!”
LXXV.
Then softly Egla: “Lovely being, tell,In pity to the grief thy lips betray
The knowledge of—say, with some kindly spell
Dost come from heaven to charm my pains away?
LXXVI.
If guilt pollute him,—as, unless mine ear
Deceive me in the purport of thy word,
Thou mean'st to imply,—kind spirit, rest not here,
The fearful truth. My doom is his command:
Writ in heaven's book, I guard the oath I've sworn,
Unless he will to blot it by thine hand.”
LXXVII.
“Oaths sworn for Meles little need avail,”Zóphiël replies: “Ere morn, if't be thy will,
To Lybian deserts he shall tell his tale:
I'll hurl him, at thy word, o'er forest, sea, and hill!
LXXVIII.
“But soothe thee, maiden! be thy soul at peace!Mine be the care to hasten to thy sire,
And null thy vow. Let every terror cease:
Perfect success attends thy least desire.”
LXXIX.
Then, lowly bending with seraphic grace,The vase he proffered full; and not a gem
Drawn forth successive from its sparkling place
But put to shame the Persian diadem.
LXXX.
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 in the caverns of the sea.
LXXXI.
“Look! here's a ruby: drinking solar rays,I saw it redden on a mountain tip.
Now on thy snowy bosom let it blaze:
'Twill blush still deeper to behold thy lip.
LXXXII.
“Here's for thy hair a garland: every flowerThat spreads its blossoms, watered by the tear
Of the sad slave in Babylonian bower,
Might see its frail bright hues perpetuate here.
LXXXIII.
“For morn's light bell, this changeful amethyst;A sapphire for the violet's tender blue;
Large opals for the queen-rose zephyr-kist;
And here are emeralds of every hue,
For folded bud and leaflet, dropped with dew.
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. Gold is supposed by some of the Asiatics to have grown like a tree in the Garden of Eden, and the veins of ore found in the earth still correspond to the form of branches. Shedad, in the gardens of his wonderful palace, had trees formed of gold and silver, with fruit and blossoms of precious stones. This palace, the Arabs suppose, still exists in the desert, where, though generally invisible, individuals from time to time have been indulged with a sight of it.
LXXXIV.
To 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
To prison thus a ray, that when dull Night
Frowns o'er her realms, and Nature's all seems nought,
She whom he grieves to leave may still behold his light.”
LXXXV.
Thus spoke he on, while still the wondering maidGazed as a youthful artist: rapturously
Each perfect, smooth, harmonious limb surveyed
Insatiate still her beauty-loving eye.
LXXXVI.
In mortal form, when perfect, Nature shows
Her all that's fair enhanced. Fire, firmament,
Ocean, earth, flowers, and gems,—all there disclose
To lavish beauty, in this last work, crowned;
And Egla, formed of fibres such as dower
Those who most feel, forgot all else around.
LXXXVII.
He saw, and, softening every wily word,Spoke in more melting music to her soul;
And o'er her sense, as when the fond night-bird
Wooes the full rose, o'erpowering fragrance stole;
This allusion is familiar to every one in the slightest degree acquainted with Oriental literature.
“The nightingale, if he sees the rose, becomes intoxicated: he lets go from his hands the reins of prudence.”—
Fable of the Gardener and Nightingale.Lady Montagu also translates a song thus:—
“The nightingale now hovers amid the flowers.His passion is to seek roses.”
Again, from the poet Hafiz:—
“When the roses wither, and the bower loses its sweetness,You have no longer the tale of the nightingale.”
Indeed, the rose, in Oriental poetry, is seldom mentioned without her paramour, the nightingale; which gives reason to suppose that the nightingale, in those countries where it was first celebrated, had really some natural fondness for that flower, or perhaps for some insect which took shelter in it. In Sir W. Jones's translation of the Persian fable of “The Gardener and Nightingale” is the following distich:—
“I know not what the rose says under his lips, that he brings back the helpless nightingales, with their mournful notes.
“One day the gardener, according to his established custom, went to view the roses: he saw a plaintive nightingale rubbing his head on the leaves of the roses, and tearing asunder with his sharp bill that volume adorned with gold.”
And Geláleddîn Rúzbehár:—
“While the nightingale sings thy praises with a loud voice, I am all ear, like the stalk of the rose-tree.”
Pliny, however, in his delightful description of this bird, says nothing, I believe, about the rose.
Cuba, Cafétal San Patricio, April, 1823.LXXXVIII.
Or when the lilies, sleepier perfume, move,Disturbed by two young sister-fawns, that play
Among their graceful stalks at morn, and love
From their white cells to lap the dew away.
LXXXIX.
She strove to speak, but 'twas in murmurs low;Her tender cheek the spirit's thrall expressing
In deeper hues of its carnation glow;
Her dewy eye her inmost soul confessing.
XC.
As the lithe reptile in some lonely grove,With fixed bright eye, of fascinating flame,
Lures on by slow degrees the plaining dove,
So nearer, nearer still, the bride and spirit came.
XCI.
Success seemed his; but secret, in the heightOf exultation, as he braved the power
Which baffled him at morn, a subtle light
Shot from his eye, with guilt and treachery fraught.
XCII.
Nature upon her children oft bestowsThe quick, untaught perception, and, while Art
O'ertasks himself with guile, loves to disclose
The dark thought in the eye, to warn the o'er-trusting heart.
XCIII.
The sprite. What mixed emotions shook his breast,
When her fair hand, ere he could clasp, recoiled!
The spell was broke; and doubts and terrors prest
He's a betrayer!—wilt receive him still?”—
The rosy blood driven to her heart by fear,
She said, in accents faint but firm, “I will.”
XCIV.
The spirit heard; and all again was dark,Save as before the melancholy flame
Of the full moon, and faint, unfrequent spark
Which from the perfume's burning embers came,
XCV.
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 through the pale gray moonlight Meles stept.
XCVI.
But ere he yet with haste could throw asideHis broidered belt and sandals, dread to tell,
Eager he sprang; he sought to clasp his bride;
He stopt; a groan was heard; he gasped, and fell
XCVII.
Low by the couch of her who widowed lay,Her ivory hands, convulsive, clasped in prayer,
But lacking power to move; and, when 'twas day,
A cold black corpse was all of Meles there!
Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven | ||