Chapter 3

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 mid the caverns of the sea.

"And 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.

"Look, 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 fraid bright hues perpetuate here.

"For morn's light bell, this changeful amythist A sapphire for the violet's tender blue; Large opals for the queen-rose zephyr-kist; And here are emeralds of ev'ry hue For ev'ry folded bud and leaflet dropped with dew.

LV.

"And here's a diamond cull'd from Indian mine 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

"The 'arch-chymic sun' in earth's dark bosom wrought To prison thus a ray; that when dull night Lours o'er his realms and nature's all seems nought She whom he grieves to leave may still behold his light." [FN#18]

Thus spake he on, for still the wondering maid Gazed, as a youthful artist,--rapturously, Each perfect, smooth, harmonious limb survey'd Insatiate still her beauty-loving eye.

[FN#18] It was not unusual among the nations of the east, to imitate flowers with precious stones. The Persian kings about the time of Artaxerxes, sat, when they gave audience under a vine, the leaves of which were formed of gold and the grapes of emeralds.

LVI.

For Zophiel wore a mortal form; and blent In mortal form, when perfect, nature shows Her all that's fair, enhanc'd; fire, firmament, Ocean, earth flowers and gems, all there disclose

Their charms epitomized: the heavenly power To lavish beauty, in this last work crown'd-- And Egla form'd of fibres such as dower Those who most feel, forgot all else around.

LVII.

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 Woos the full rose o'erpowering fragrance stole. (6)

Or when the lillies, sleepier perfume, move, Disturbed by too young sister-fawns, that play Among their graceful stalks at morn, and love From their white cells to lip the dews away.

LVIII.

She strove to speak, but 'twas in murmurs low, While o'er her cheek, his potent spell confessing, Deeper diffused the warm carnation glow Still dewy wet with tears her inmost soul confessing.

As the little reptile, in some lonely grove, With fixed bright eye of facinating flame Lures on by slow degrees the plaining dove, So nearer--nearer still--the bride and spirit came.

LIX.

"Thou, strong, invisible, invidious sprite, Now, from my love my peerless mortal shield-- What exultation for thy power to night! Look on thy beauteous charge!--why does she yield?"

LX.

Thus secret he, the pearly bracelet holding, Lending his lip to accents sweetlier bland The light that clipt him, half the maid enfolding Half given--tho' dubious half--her lilly hand.

LXI.

Success seemed his;--but secret, in the height And pride of transport; as he set at nought And taunts her guardian power; infernal light Shot from his eye, with guilt and treachery fraught.

Haply it was but Nature:--she bestows Intuitive preception, and while art O'ertasks himself with guile, loves to disclose The dark soul in the eye, to warn th' o'ertrusting heart.

LXII.

Zophiel, howe'er the warning came, was foiled What torments burned in his unearthly breast! The while her trembling hand--untouched, recoiled, That, wild, exulting glance, the wily fiend confest.

LXIII.

Faintly he spoke--"'Tis Meles' step I here, Guilty thou know'st him--wilt receive him still?"-- The rosy blood driven to her heart by fear She said, in accents faint, but firm, "I will."

LXIV.

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.

That stood in vases round the room disposed; Shuddering and trembling to her couch she crept,-- Soft oped the door and quick again was closed, And thro' the pale grey moon-light Meles stept.

LXV.

But ere he yet, in haste, could throw aside His broidered belt and sandals--dread to [illegible] Eager he sprang--he sought to clasp his bride-- He stopt--a groan was heard--he gasped and fell

LXVI.

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 corse was all of Meles, there.

END OF THE FIRST CANTO.

NOTES.

(1) _Wandered malignant o'er the erring earth._

This passage and, indeed the whole poem, is founded on a belief, prevalent in the earlier ages of christianity, that all nations, except the descendents of Abraham, were abandoned by the Almighty, and subjected to the power of daemons or evil spirits. Fontenelle in his _"Histoire des Oracles"_ makes the following extract from the works of the Pagan philosopher Porphyry.

"Auguste deja vieux and songeant a se choisir un successeur, alla consulter l'oracle de Delphes. L'oracle ne repondoit point, quiqu 'Auguste n'epargnat pas de sacrifices. A la fin, cependant, il en tira cette reponse. L'enfant Hebreu a qui tous les Dieux obeissent, me chasse d'ici, and me ronvoie dans les Enfers. Sors de ce temple sans parler."

(2) _While friendly shades the sacred rites enshroud._

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

(3) _When fiercer spirits howled, he but complained._

So Milton. Others more mild retreated to a silent valley singing, With notes angelical, to many a harp, Their own heroic deeds and hapless fall.

(4) _Weary he fainted thro' the toilsome hours, And then his mystic nature he sustained On steam of sacrifices, breath of flowers._

Eusebe dans sa "Preparation Evangelique" raporte quantite de passages de Porphyre, ou ce philosophe Payen assure que les mauvais demons sont les auteurs des enchantemens, des philtres, et des malefices; que le mensonge est essentiel a leur nature; qu'ils ne font que tromper nos yeux par des spectres et par des fautomes; qu'ils excitent en nous la plupart de nos passions; qu'ils ont l'ambition de vouloir passer pour des dieux; que leurs corps _aeriens se nourissent_ de _fumigations de sand repandu et de la graisse des sacrifices;_ qu'il n'y a qu'eux qui se melent de rendre des oracles, et a qui cette fonction pleine de tromperic soit tombee en partage.

_Fontenelle, Historie des Oracles._

_Still true To one dear theme, my full soul flowing o'er Would find no room for thought of what it knew (5) Nor picturing forfeit transport curse me more._

Si l'homme (says a modern writer) constant dans ses affections, pouvoit saus cesse fournir a un sentiment renouvele sans cesse, sans doute la solitude and l'amour l'egaleroient a Dieu meme; car ce sont la les deux eternel plaisirs du gran Etre.

A celebrated female, (Saint Theresa) used to describe Satan as an unhappy being, who never could know what it was to love.

(6) _And o'er her sense as when the fond night bird Woos the full rose o'erpowering fragrance stole._

This allusion must be familiar to every general reader of poetry.

"The nightingale if he sees the rose becomes intoxicated; he lets go from his hand the reins prudence." _Fable of the Gardener and Nightingale._

Lady Montague also translates a song, if my memory does not deceive me, thus,

"The nightingale now hovers amid the flowers, her passion is to seek roses."

And from the poet Hafiz,

"When the roses wither and the bower loses its sweetness, you have no longer the tale of the nightingale."

Indeed the rose, in Oriental poetry, is seldom mentioned without her paramour the nightingale, which gives reason to suppose that this bird, in those countries where it was first celebrated, had really some natural fondness for the rose; or perhaps for some insect which took shelter in it. In Sir W. Jones' translation of the Persian fable, of "The Gardener and Nightingale" we meet with the following distich.

_"I know not what the rose says under his lips, that he brings back the helpless Nightingales with their mournful notes.

One day the Gardener, according to his established custom, went to view the roses; he saw a plaintive nightingale rubbing his head on the leaves of the roses and tearing asunder, with his sharp bill, that volume adorned with gold."_

And Gelaleddin Ruzbehar,

_"While the nightingale sings thy praises with a loud voice, I am all ear like the stalk of the rosetree."_

Pliny, however, in his delightful description of this bird, says nothing, I believe, about the rose.

(7) Les Perses semblent etre les premiers hommes connus de nous qui parlerent des anges comme d'huissiers celestes, et de porteurs d'ordres.

_Voltaire, Essai sur les moeurs et l'esprit des nations._

In composing this ode, which was done four years ago, the writer had not the most remote idea, of complimenting any one. Without the slightest pretensions to "connoiseurship" she has only described the absolute effect of the pictures alluded to, on an individual, and would only be considered in the light of an insent warming itself in the sun, and grateful for his pervasive influence.

ODE.

Thou who wert born of Psyche and of Love And fondly nurst on Poesy's warm breast Painting, oh, power adored! My country's sons have poured To thee their orisons; and thou hast blest Their votive sighs, nor vainly have they strove.

Thou who art wont to soothe the varied pain That ceaseless throbs at absent lover's heart, Who first bestowed thine aid On the young Rhodian maid [FN#19] When doomed, from him whose love was life, to part, From a lone bard accept an humble heartfelt strain.

[FN#19] I do not positively recollect whether the incident, here described is supposed to have transpired at Rhodes, Corinth, or some other place, and have not, at present, the means for ascertaining. Painting is called the Rhodian Art, but I know not if on account of its having been first invented there or for the eminence of the painters which Rhodes produced; which was so great that an illustrious enemy refrained from burning the city, which he had in his power, out of respect to the genius of Protogenes one of its most celebrated artists.

'Twas the last night the idol youth might stay-- E'en now, to bear him from the rosy isle, [FN#20] The galley waits: he sleeps She silent wakes and weeps-- Watches his lips that in light dreaming smile-- Twines her soul round his charms and dreads the coming day.

The dazzling drops her pitious eyes that blind Hushing her struggling sobs she wiped away:-- Her tapers paly light Fell on the marble white, Beside the couch where half reclined he lay And of his beauteous face the shadow well defined.

Loved deity, then first thou cam'st on earth!-- Pity for truth in sorrow, called thee here! Sudden the fair, inspired, With a new thought was fired Her hand urged on by hope--yet, breathing not for fear-- She traced the unreal shade--'twas hers--an art had birth.

[FN#20] Rhodes, in the Greek tongue, signifies _rose_ or roses. After being made the scene of the loves of Venus and Apollo, the isle (says Demoustier) became an enchanting garden, and soon took the name of the flowers it produced.

By dearest, tenderest feelings still allured, Thou sought'st our wilds far blooming o'er the deep Pleased with the soft employ A fair haired cherub boy O'er a more helpless child his watch to keep Was placed; and from his sports the long restraint endured.

Fair as the hues of heaven, the innocent Lay like a phantom born of some mild soul; A drop, for it had wept A moment ere it slept, O'er its light vermil cheek was seen to roll And its young guardian's heart drank beauty as he leant.

That nameless wish to nought but genius known.-- Indefinite--but in each fibre felt, Whispered. The boy elate Burned to perpetuate The full pervasive bliss; enrapt he knelt-- Thou saw'st--a pencil's by--and infant West's thine own.

Soon the plumed savage, from his leafy home Emerging, saw and loved the gifted child, And soon, beneath their care, His hands the tints prepare, That strain their shapely limbs, in grandeur wild As thro' their arching woods, the desert warriors roam. [FN#21]

[FN#21] Sir Benjamin West, when a child, was presented with the primitive colours by an Indian. See Galt's Life of West.

Please he repaid their plans, nor those alone; Sped by his strength the painted arrow flew; And oft the soaring bird For shape, or hue preferred, To make a model for his art he knew While sovereign Nature saw--and smiled upon her throne.

Bold Science, who earth's caverned depths explores, And soars triumphant 'mid new worlds of light,-- Lays bare the heaving heart [FN#22] Nor suffers life to part-- Lures the red lightning from its stormy height-- Oft, goddess kneels to thee to save his precious stores.

[FN#22] An operation was performed at Paris by M. Richerande in which the heart of a patient, who afterwards recovered, was laid bare.

The rough-browed warrior on the midnight deck While stealing softness thro' his pulses glides, By the moon's pensive rays Regards with lengthened gaze, The pictured form his scarry bosom hides By day; that tho' death grasp, hangs smiling at his neck.

When fate has torn from the fond mother's arms The tender hope her bosom fed, to thee She flies;--and ere decay Can mar his beauteous prey Her arching eyes, amid their grief, can see, Still dawning bright, to them, its early-blighted charms.

The generous youth who, fired by love of fame, A victim at her bloody altars fell; To the beloved ones reft, By aid of thee, has left His form, his lip, his ardent glance, to tell How fair was he on earth who left it for a name.

The patriot--here a moment let my strain Tremble before thy Stuart--who but he Could bid mild Washington-- His god-loved labours done-- Thus sit before us breathing majesty, And, in his deep blue eye, still life and soul retain?

Methinks, the while I gaze, each graceful line So light imprinted on his forehead fair, Where Wisdom sits serene Of every sense the queen, Seems as an embryo empire still were there, While still his ample breast swells with the vast design.

And fondly o'er the mellow tints I pause Of her, whose vivid touch shames not her sire; Bold Genius in his pride Has marked her as his bride, On his bright pinions bids her soul aspire, Nor pay the tribute due by tardier Nature's laws. [FN#23]

[FN#23] While composing this ode the writer was shown a beautiful specimen from the hand of a young daughter of the celebrated Stuart, who entirely devoted herself to the art.

But guard thee well young J--e: in his embrace How many seal with death their ectasy! Too deep, intense, and wild, For one so late a child, I fear me lest the proffered transport be That every earthlier joy absorbent would efface.

Soft is thy form--amid the unpent air, Pay rosy exercise her just demands: Tho' heaven thy lone hours woo Earth still demands her due; Gay health to guard e'en genius' palace stands-- And when she takes her flight--e'en genius, must despair.

Nor those alone doomed to incarnate birth Painting, death-baffler, is it thine to save! The heavenly shapes that flit, When the entranced fit, Is on, and the charmed soul forgets its earth, Thou bidst to earthly eyes their sky-dipt vestments wave.

The radiant visions Fancy's wand uprears When Poesy around has spread her spell, Like summer flowrets dies Refresh the enchanted skies, Where, soft as air, and lovelier for her fears, Bright in her golden robes flies fair-haired Florimell. [FN#24]

[FN#24] The flight of Florimell, from a scene in Spencer's Faery Queen, is an exquisite little picture by Allston, in the possession of a private gentleman.

The miracles, in holy record kept, Done--ere one cheering ray of distant light Thro' death's dark portals shown, At thy command alone, Still, still--reacted meet--the astonished sight, Tho' rolling ages o'er the scene have swept.

In this far distant land, which the great deep Perchance embosomed, when that dust was rife, The pale unconscious dead On the strown relics laid Of old Elisha, in his passing sleep, Still, at the hallowed touch, starts back to warmth and life. [FN#25]

[FN#25] Every one must recollect the sublime picture here alluded to.

Sweet, when the soul is weary of the ills That stern reality presents, to dwell On beauteous forms: they smooth The ruffled sense, and sooth The heart with soft perfection; till a spell Blends with its troublous pulse, and all its achings stills.

And who can look nor own the pencil's power Where tender Ariadne, happy yet, [FN#26] Lies in a dream of bliss? The last half-pitying kiss, By falsehood given, her sleeping lip has met-- That still seems hovering there like Zephyr o'er a flower.

[FN#26] Vanderlyn's Ariadne.

The dawn breaks slowly o'er the distant main, To come no more her ingrate hero flies; While thoughts confiding speak Upon her mantling cheek-- Illusion chains the sense--in lowest sighs Whispering--we fear to see her wake to pain.

But whither wandering? whatsoe'er has gained Long conning book and heart the white-haired sage; Cause and remote effect In living semblance dect, The truths divine of many a moral page Thy hand, harmonious Peale, hath at a glance explained.

STANZAS.

To meet a friendship such as mine Such feelings must thy heart refine As seldom mortal mind gives birth, 'Tis love, without a stain of earth, _Fratello del mio cor._

Tho' friendship be its earthly name All pure, from highest heaven, it came 'Tis never felt for more than one, And scorns to dwell with Venus' son _Fratello del mio cor._

Him let it view not, or it flies Like tender hues of morning-skies, Or morn's sweet flower, of purple glow. When sunny beams too ardent grow _Fratello del mio cor._

It's food is looks, its nectar, sighs, Its couch the lip, its throne the eyes The soul its breath; and so possest, Heaven's raptures reign in mortal breast. _Fratello del mio cor._

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.

Thy home seemed not of earth--so blest-- But there has fall'n a shaft of fate-- The dove is stricken; and the nest She warmed and cheered is desolate.

But fairest not for thee, we mourn: Blest from thy birth, thou still art so-- The tear must dew thine early urn For him whom thou hast taught to know

The zest of joys--complete, as knows Thy vital flame, the pang that tost And changed thee past, where now it glows-- Knowing, yet feeling all is lost.

There is a flower of tender white And, on its spotless bosom, play The moon's soft beams, one lovely night; But when appears the morning ray

'Tis shut and withered--even now Around your lime I see it wave; [FN#27] 'Tis pure, and fresh, and fair, as thou-- And sinks in beauty to its grave.

[FN#27] The white convolvulus; it blossoms just after sun-set, and is seen in great abundance entwining the lime-hedges, about the plantations of Cuba.