Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven

The remains of Columbus are preserved in the cathedral at Havana, beneath a monument and bust of very rude sculpture. These stanzas were written on the same coast, about seventy miles distant.

Salutes me as with panting heart I sing.

II.

Madoc! my ancient fathers' bones repose
Where their bold harps thy country's bards inwreathed;

The well-known and beautiful poem of Dr. Robert Southey, which bears the name of the Welch prince Madoc, renders it unnecessary to give any further account of him.

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 love
These 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.

Spirits who hovered o'er Euphrates' stream
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,

Did then yon ocean in its bosom press
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 here
Come 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 fires
Tell 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.

The time has been—this holiest records tell—
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

For nobler use, to tempt the hapless race
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

Ev'n spirits knew not; yet they loved to sport
With thy mysterious mind, and lent their powers
The good to benefit, the ill to hurt.
Dark fiends assailed thee in thy dangerous hours;

But better angels thy far perils eyed,
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 boast
Aught to compare? Though now no more beguile,
Chained in their darkling depths, the infernal host,

From the cessation of oracles of at the death of the Founder of our religion, the old Christian fathers inferred that the demons who uttered them were at that time confined.

Who would not brave a fiend to share an angel's smile?

IX.

'Twas then there lived a captive Hebrew pair.
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

And loveliest of her line. The tear of joy,
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 best
Of 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.

Yet, not perverted, would my words imply
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,

But the collective attributes that fill
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.

Or if perchance, though formed most just and pure,
Amid their virtue's wild luxuriance hid,
Such germs all mortal bosoms must immure,
Which sometimes show their poisonous heads unbid,—

If haply such the fair Judean finds,
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.

And yet, despite of all, the starting tear,
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

Required it at their need, she could have stood
Unmoved as some fair-sculptured statue, while
The dome that guards it earth's convulsions rude
Are shivering, meeting ruin with a smile.

XVI.

And this at intervals, in language bright,
Told her blue eyes; though oft the tender lid
Drooped like a noonday lily, languid, white,
And trembling, all save love and lustre, hid:

Then, as young Christian bard had sung, they seemed
Like some Madonna in his soul, so sainted;
But, opening in their energy, they beamed
As tasteful Grecians their Minerva painted:

While o'er her graceful shoulders' milky swell,
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.

None of their kindred lived to claim her hand;
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,

Still left her free: but soon her mother drew
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,

She would entreat no more, but to the voice
Of her light-giver hearken; and her life

And love, all yielding to that kindly choice,
Would hush each idle wish, and learn to be a wife.

XIX.

Now oft it happed, when morning task was done,
And lotted out for every household maid
Her light and pleasant toil, ere yet the sun
Was high, fair Egla to a woody shade

Loved to retire. Acacias here inclined

Some of the acacias of the East are endowed with a sensitive power, and are said to bend gently over those who seek their shade.

Their friendly heads, in thick profusion planted,
And with a thousand tendrils clasped and twined;
And when, at fervid noon, all nature panted,

Inwoven with their boughs, a fragrant bower,
Inviting rest, its mossy pillow flung;
And here the full cerulean passion-flower,
Climbing among the leaves, its mystic symbols hung.

Those who have only seen this flower as a curious exotic in severer climates can have little idea of the profusion with which it grows in its native realms. It climbs from shrub to shrub, forming natural bowers, sparkling with morning dew, and looking, from its beamy shape, like a beautiful planet.

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.

Sweet flower! thou'rt lovelier even than the rose:
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,

Art like those brilliant things we never taste
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.

This calm retreat one summer day she sought,
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

Of boding images. She scarce could woo
One song reluctant, ere, advancing quick
Through the fresh leaves, Sèphora's form she knew,
And duteous rose to meet; but fainting, sick,

Her heart sank tremulously in her. Why
Sought out at such an hour, it half divined;
And seated now beside, with downcast eye
And throbbing pulse, she met the pressure kind,

And warmly given: while thus the matron, fair,
Though marred by grief and time, with soothing word,
Solicitous, and gently serious air,
The purpose why she hither came preferred.

XXV.

“Egla, my hopes thou knowest, though exprest
Not oft, lest they should pain thee. I have dealt
Not rudely with thy fancies, yet my breast
Retains the wish most vehemently felt.

“Know, I have marked that when the reason why
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,

“Words seemed to seek thy lip; but the bright rush
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—

Then, Egla, see my heart!”—“O mother dear!
Distrust my wisdom, but regard my truth.

XXVII.

“Long time ago, while yet a twelve-years' child,
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

“Of the lost land thou lovest: every scene
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

“I heard a piteous moan. Wondering, I went
And found an aged man: worn and oppressed
He seemed with toil, and said, in whispers faint,
‘O little maiden, how I am distressed!

“‘I sink for very want. Give me, I pray,
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.

“When, gaining sudden strength, he raised his hand,
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,

“‘And choose thee now a bridegroom meet. To-day
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

“‘To see their fears who followed him. But who
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.

“‘They wailed; the long torn ringlets of their hair

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

“‘What the fierce waves were preying on? When, lo!
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 breath
Nor 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 despair
Yielded 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.

“‘Now mark what chanced! That infant was the son
Of Babylonia's sovereign: soon was placed
Before his throne the youth who so had won
From death the royal heir. A captive graced

“‘All o'er with nature's gifts just dawning, brave,
And panting for renown, blushing and praised,
The stripling stood, and, closely pressed, would crave
Nought but a place mid warlike men: yet raised

“‘To his full wish, the kingly presence leaving,
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.

“‘But, when his mother heard, she wept, and said,
“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

“‘“Our white hairs in the earth?” So, when her fears
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 face
Grew 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.

“This I had told; but shame withheld, and fear
Thou'dst deem some spirit guiled me,—disapprove,—
Perchance forbid my customed wandering here.
But, whenceso'er the vision, I have strove

“Still vainly to forget. I've heard thee mourn
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 where
Our 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.

“But to my theme. Maiden, a lord for thee,
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

“What well might be delight. Rememberest thou,
When to the altar by thy father reared,
As we went forth with sacrifice and vow,
A victim-dove escaped, and there appeared

“A stranger? Quickly from his shrilly string
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.

“His voice, his mien, the lustre of his eye,
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

“He turned and went, with black locks clustering bright
Around his pillar neck,—‘'Tis pity he,’
Thou saidst, ‘in all the comeliness and might
Of perfect man,—'tis pity he should be

“‘But an idolater! How nobly sweet
He tempers pride with courtesy! A flower
Drops honey when he speaks. His sandalled feet
Are light as antelope. He stands a tower.’

XLV.

“That very stranger sought thy sire, and swore,
For the much love that day conceived for thee,
To be a false idolater no more.
'Tis Meles, late returned from embassy

“To distant courts, and loved by the young King
Of Media. Bethink thee, Egla: muse
Upon the good, union like this may bring
On thee and thine. Yet, if thy soul refuse,

“We will not press thee. Weep, if't be thy will,
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,

“Nay, bear, thy pains. But sooner in the grave
'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.

Sèphora held her to her heart the while
Grief had its way; then saw her gently laid,
And bade her, kissing her blue eyes, beguile
Slumbering the fervid noon. Her leafy bed

Breathed forth o'erpowering sighs; increased the heat;
Sleepless had been the night. Her weary sense
Could now no more. Lone in the still retreat,
Wounding the flowers to sweetness more intense,

She sank. Thus kindly Nature lets our woe
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.

Now all the mortal maid lies indolent,
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

That foams against the sea-rock looked her neck
By the dark, glossy, odorous shrubs relieved,

That, close inclining o'er her, seemed to reck
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.”

and quickly heaved,

Beneath her robe's white folds and azure zone,
Her heart yet incomposed; a fillet through
Peeped softly azure; while with tender moan,
As if of bliss, Zephyr her ringlets blew

Sportive: about her neck their gold he twined;
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.

As the vexed Caspian, though its rage be past,
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;

So still each little pulse was seen to throb,
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.

Every one must have observed this effect in little children, who for several hours after they have cried themselves to sleep, and sometimes even when a smile is on their lips, are heard from time to time to sob.

L.

Save that, a perfect peace was sovereign there
O'er fragrance, sound, and beauty; all was mute:
Only a dove bemoaned her absent fere,
Or fainting breezes swept the slumberer's lute.

LI.

It chanced that day, lured by the verdure, came
Zóphiël, a spirit sometimes ill, but, ere
He fell, a heavenly angel. The faint flame
Of dying embers on an altar where

Zorah, fair Egla's sire, in secret bowed
And sacrificed to the great unseen God,
While friendly shades the sacred rites enshroud,

The captive Hebrews, though they sometimes outwardly conformed to the religion of their oppressors, were accustomed to practise their own in secret.

The spirit saw. His inmost soul was awed,

And he bethought him of the forfeit joys
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.

When fiercer spirits howled, he but complained
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

Of him, beneath some black, infernal clift,
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.

“Woe to thee, wild ambition! I employ
Despair's low notes thy dread effects to tell:

Born in high heaven, her peace thou couldst destroy;
And, but for thee, there had not been a hell!

“Through the celestial domes thy clarion pealed:
Angels, entranced, beneath thy banners ranged,
And straight were fiends; hurled from the shrinking field,
They waked in agony to wail the change.

“Darting through all her veins the subtle fire,
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 thousand wild desires that still torment
The fiercely struggling soul where peace once dwelt,
But perished; feverish hope; drear discontent,
Impoisoning all possest,—oh! I have felt

“As spirits feel: yet not for man we mourn:
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,

“Fame ne'er had roused, nor Song her records kept;
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!

“Man found thee, Death: but Death and dull decay
Baffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves;

By mighty works he swells his narrow day,
And reigns for ages o'er the world he loves.

“Yet what the price? With stings that never cease
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 crew
Had 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 birth
Had 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!”

amused
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.

The identity of Zóphiël with Apollo will be perceived in this and other passages.

LVIII.

And now he wanders on from glade to glade
To where more precious shrubs diffuse their balms;
And gliding through the thickly-woven shade,
Where the soft captive lay in all her charms,

He caught a glimpse. The colors in her face,
Her bare white arms, her lips, her shining hair,
Burst on his view. He would have flown the place,
Fearing some faithful angel rested there,

Who'd see him, 'rest of glory, lost to bliss,
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

Ineffable. But what assailed his ear?
A sigh! Surprised, another glance he took;
Then doubting, fearing, softly coming near,
He ventured to her side, and dared to look;

Whispering, “Yes, 'tis of earth! So, new-found life
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,

“Stern as it was, to win her o'er to death.
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 bloom forever for me thus! Still true
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 be
In what I love blest e'en the little span
(With all a spirit's keen capacity
For bliss) permitted the poor insect, man.

LX.

“The few I've seen, and deemed of worth to win,
Like some sweet floweret, mildewed in my arms,
Withered to hideousness as foul as sin,
Grew fearful hags; and then, with potent charm

“Of muttered word and harmful drug, did learn
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

“To view his lowering fate. Fair, ay, as this
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.

“She has fallen to sleep in grief; haply been chid,
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

“And art can lend come forth. He who would gain
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 fair
And 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.

“And wherefore grieve to cloud her little day

Zóphiël, being one of the angels who fell before the creation was completed, is not supposed to know any thing of the immortality of the souls of men.

Of fleeting life? What doom from power divine
I bear eternally! Pity!—away!
Wake, pretty fly! and, while thou mayst, be mine,

“Though but an hour; so thou supply'st thy looms
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.

To whisper softly in her ear he bent,
But draws him back restrained: a higher power,
That loved her, and would keep her innocent,
Repelled his evil touch. And from her bower,

To lead the maid, Sèphora comes: the sprite,
Half baffled, followed, hovering on unseen,
Till Meles, fair to see, and nobly dight,
Received his pensive bride. Gentle of mien,

She meekly stood. He fastened round her arms
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 moved
In 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 pair
In 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 eye
She'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 mused
At her own window, in the pearly ray
Of the full moon: her thoughtful soul infused

Cœlestes, or the Moon, was adored by many of the Jewish women, as well as the Carthaginians. They addressed their vows to her, burnt incense, poured out drink-offerings, and made cakes for her with her own hands. This goddess is called, in Scripture, the Queen of Heaven.

Thus in her words, left lone a while to pray:—

LXIX.

“What bliss for her who lives her little day
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!’

“To every blast she bends in beauty meek,—
Let the storm beat, his arms her shelter kind,—
And feels no need to blanch her rosy cheek
With thoughts befitting his superior mind.

“Who only sorrows when she sees him pained,
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.

“'Tis the soul's food: the fervid must adore.
For this the heathen, unsufficed with thought,
Moulds him an idol of the glittering ore,
And shrines his smiling goddess, marble-wrought.

“What bliss for her, even in this world of woe,
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!

“This I had hoped; but hope too dear, too great,
Go to thy grave!—I feel thee blasted now.
Give me fate's sovereign, well to bear the fate
Thy pleasure sends: this, my sole prayer, allow!”

LXX.

Still fixed on heaven, her earnest eye, all dew,
Seemed, as it sought amid the lamps of night
The God her soul addressed; but other view,
Far different, sudden from that pensive plight

Recalled her. Quick as on primeval gloom
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

Modest emerged, as might a youth beseem,—
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

Of its first morn, that floweret open springs:
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

From ivory fount. Each bright prismatic tint
Still vanishing, returning, blending, changing,
About their tender mystic texture glint
Like colors o'er the full-blown bubble ranging

That pretty urchins launch upon the air,
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,

Like that which pagans say the dewy car
Precedes of their Aurora, clipped him round,
Retiring as he moved; and evening's star
Shamed not the diamond coronal that bound

His curly locks. And, still to teach his face
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 here
With 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: there
Is 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 earth
And 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?

“Les Perses semblent être les premiers hommes connus de nous qui parlèrent des anges comme d'huissiers célestes et de porteurs d'ordres.”—

Voltaire, sur les Mœurs et l'Esprit des Nations.

LXXVI.

“Alas! what know'st thou of my plighted lord?
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,

“But to my father hasten, and make known
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 bind
These 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 flower
That 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.

“And here's a diamond, culled from Indian mine
To gift a haughty queen: it might not be:
I knew a worthier brow, sister divine,

“Sister” was an affectionate appellation used by the Hebrews to women.

And brought the gem; for well I deem for thee

“The ‘arch-chymic sun’ in earth's dark bosom wrought
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 maid
Gazed as a youthful artist: rapturously
Each perfect, smooth, harmonious limb surveyed
Insatiate still her beauty-loving eye.

LXXXVI.

For Zóphiël wore a mortal form; and blent
In mortal form, when perfect, Nature shows
Her all that's fair enhanced. Fire, firmament,
Ocean, earth, flowers, and gems,—all there disclose

Their charms epitomized: the heavenly power
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 height
Of 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 bestows
The 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.

Or haply 'twas some airy guardian foiled
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

Her sore. While Zóphiël: “Meles' step I hear!—
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 aside
His 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!

University of Virginia Library

CANTO FIRST. GROVE OF ACACIAS.

I.

II.