Zophiel Part 1

Zophiel.

by Maria Gowen Brooks.

PREFACE.

Wishing to make a continued effort, in an art which, though almost in secret, has been adored and a.s.siduously cultivated from earliest infancy, it was my intention to have chosen some incident from Pagan history, as the foundation of my contemplated poem. But, looking over the Jewish annals, I was induced to select for my purpose, one of their well-known stories which besides its extreme beauty, seemed to open an extensive field for the imagination which might therein avail itself not only of important and elevated truths but pleasing and popular superst.i.tions.

Having finished one Canto I left the United States for the West Indies in the hope of being able to sail thence for Great Britain, where I might submit what I had done to the candour of some able writer; publish it, if thought expedient; and obtain advice and materials for the improvement and prosecution of my work. But as events have transpired to frustrate that intention I have endeavored to make it as perfect, as with the means I have access to, is possible.

It is, now, far beneath what might have been done, under the influence of more decided hopes and more auspicious circ.u.mstances.

Yet, as it is, I am induced to place it before the public, with that anxiety which naturally attends the doubtful accomplishment of any favourite object, on the principle that no artist can make the same improvement, or labour with so much pleasure to himself, in private, as when comparing his efforts with those of others, and listening to the opinions of critics and the remarks of connoisseurs. The beauty, though she may view herself, in her mirror, from the ringlets of her hair to the sole of her slipper, and appear most lovely to her own gaze, can never be certain of her power to please until the suffrage of society confirm the opinion formed in seclusion; and "Qu'est ce que la beaute s'elle ne touche pas?"

Literary employments are necessary to the happiness and almost to the vitality of those who pursue them with much ardour; and though the votaries of the muses are, too often, debased by faults, yet, abstractedly considered, a taste for any art, if well directed, must seem a preservative not only against melancholy, but even against misery and vice.

Genius, whatever its bent, supposes a refined and delicate moral sense and though sometimes perverted by sophistry or circ.u.mstance, and sometimes failing through weakness; can always, at least, comprehend and feel, the grandeur of honour and the beauty of virtue.

As to the faults of those to whom the world allows the possession of genius, there are, perhaps, good grounds for the belief that they have actually fewer than those employed about ordinary affairs; but the last are easily concealed and the first carefully dragged to light.

The miseries too, sometimes attendant to persons of distinguished literary attainments, are often held forth as a subject of "warn and scare" but Cervantes and Camoens would both have been cast into prison even though unable to read or write, and Savage, though a mechanic or scrivener, would probably have possessed the same failings and consequently have fallen into the same, or a greater degree of poverty and suffering. Alas! how many, in the flower of youth and strength, perish in the loathsome dungeons of this island, and, when dead, are refused a decent grave; who, in many instances, were their histories traced by an able pen would be wept by half the civilized world.

Although I can boast nothing but an extreme and unquenchable love for the art to which my humble aspirations are confined, my lyre has been a solace when every thing else has failed; soothing when agitated, and when at peace furnishing that exercise and excitement without which the mind becomes sick, and all her faculties retrograde when they ought to be advancing. Men, when they feel that nature has kindled in their bosoms a flame which must incessantly be fed, can cultivate eloquence and exert it, in aid of the unfortunate before the judgment seats of their country; or endeavour to "lure to the skies" such as enter the temples of their G.o.d; but woman, alike subject to trials and vicissitudes and endowed with the same wishes, (for the observation, "there is no s.e.x to soul," is certainly not untrue,) condemned, perhaps, to a succession of arduous though minute duties in which, oftentimes, there is nothing to charm and little to distract, unless she be allowed the exercise of her pen must fall into melancholy and despair, and perish, (to use the language of Mad.

de Stael,) "consumed by her own energies."

Thus do we endeavour to excuse any inordinate or extreme attachment by labouring to show in their highest colours the merits of its object.

Zophiel may or may not be called entirely a creature of imagination, as comports with the faith of the reader; he is not, however, endowed with a single miraculous attribute; for which the general belief of ages, even among christians, may not be produced as authority.

The stanza in which his story is told though less complicate and beautiful than the Spencerian, is equally ancient; and favorable to a pensive melody, is also susceptible of much variety.

The marginal notes will be useless to such as have read much.

_San Patricio, Island of Cuba, March 30, 1825._

INVOCATION.

Thou with the dark blue eye upturned to heaven, And cheek now pale, now warm with radiant glow, Daughter of G.o.d,--most dear,-- Come with thy quivering tear, And tresses wild, and robes of loosened flow,-- To thy lone votaress let one look be given!

Come Poesy! nor like some just-formed maid, With heart as yet unswoln by bliss or woe;-- But of such age be seen As Egypt's glowing queen, When her brave Roman learned to love her so That death and loss of fame, were, by a smile, repaid.

Or as thy Sappho, when too fierce a.s.sailed By stern ingrat.i.tude her tender breast:-- Her love by scorn repaid Her friendship true betrayed, Sick of the guileful earth, she sank for rest In the cold waves embrace; while Grecian muse bewailed.

Be to my mortal eye, like some fair dame-- Ripe, but untouched by time; whose frequent blush Plays o'er her cheek of truth As soft as earliest youth; While thoughts exalted to her mild eye rush-- And the expanded soul, tells 'twas from heaven it came.

Daughter of life's first cause; who, when he saw The ills that unborn innocents must bear, When doomed to come to earth-- Bethought--and gave thee birth To charm the poison from affliction there; And from his source eternal, bade thee draw.

He gave thee power, inferior to his own But in control o'er matter. 'Mid the crash Of earthquake, war, and storm, Is seen thy radiant form Thou com'st at midnight on the lightning's flash, And ope'st to those thou lov'st new scenes and worlds unknown.

And still, as wild barbarians fiercely break The graceful column and the marble dome-- Where arts too long have lain Debased at pleasure's fain, And bleeding justice called on wrath to come, 'Mid ruins heaped around, thou bidst thy votarists wake.

Methinks I see thee on the broken shrine Of some fall'n temple--where the gra.s.s waves high With many a flowret wild; While some lone, pensive, child Looks on the sculpture with a wondering eye Whose kindling fires betray that he is chosen thine. [FN#1]

[FN#1] Genius, perhaps, has often, nay generally, been awakened and the whole future bent of the mind thus strongly operated upon, determined, by some circ.u.mstance trivial as this.

Or on some beetling cliff--where the mad waves Rush echoing thro' the high-arched caves below, I view some love-reft fair Whose sighing warms the air, Gaze anxious on the ocean as it raves And call on thee-alone, of power to sooth her woe.

Friend of the wretched; smoother of the couch Of pining hope; thy pitying form I know!

Where thro' the wakeful night, By a dim taper's light, Lies a pale youth, upon his pallet low, Whose wan and woe-worn charms rekindle at thy touch.

Friendless--oppressed by fate--the restless fires Of his thralled soul prey on his beauteous frame-- Till, strengthened by thine aid, He shapes some kindred maid, Pours forth in song the life consuming flame, And for awhile forgets his sufferings and desires.

Scorner of thoughtless grandeur, thou hast chose Thy _best-beloved_ from ruddy Nature's breast: The grotto dark and rude-- The forest solitude-- The craggy mount by blushing clouds carest-- Have altars where thy light etherial glows. [FN#2]

[FN#2] Every nation, however rude, has, as it has been justly observed, a taste for poetry. This art after all that has and can be said for and against it, is the language of nature, and among the relics of the most polished and learned nations little has survived except such as simply depicts those natural feelings and images which have ever existed and ever must continue. Most of the great poets have been individuals of humble condition rising from the ma.s.s of the people by that natural principle which causes the most etherial particles to rise and the denser to sink to the earth. But, as Byron exquisitely says, in one of the most wonderfully beautiful pages he ever composed,

"Many are poets who have never penned Their inspirations, and, perchance, the best; They felt, they loved, and died; but would not lend Their thoughts to meaner beings; they comprest The G.o.d within them, and rejoined the stars Unlaurel'd upon earth."

In the place where I now write amid several hundred Africans of different ages, and nations, the most debased of any on the face of the earth, I have been enabled to observe, even in this, last link of the chain of humanity, the strong natural love for music and poetry.

Any little incident which occurs on the estate where they toil, and which the greater part of them are never suffered to leave, is immediately made the subject of a rude song which they, in their broken Spanish, sing to their companions; and thereby relieve a little the monotony of their lives.

I have observed these poor creatures, under various circ.u.mstances, and though, generally, extremely brutal, have, in some instances, heard touches of sentiment from them, when under the influence of grief, equal to any which have flowed from the pen of Rousseau.

Thy sovereign priest by earth's vile sons was driven To make the cold unconscious earth his bed: [FN#3]

The damp cave mocked his sighs-- But from his sightless eyes, Wrung forth by wrongs, the anguished drops he shed, Fell each as an appeal to summon thee from heaven.

Thou sought'st him in his desolation; placed On thy warm bosom his unpillowed head; Bade him for visions live More bright than worlds can give; O'er his pale lips thy soul infusive shed That left his dust adored where kings decay untraced.

[FN#3] "On the banks of the Meles was shown the spot where Critheis, the mother of Homer, brought him into the world, and the cavern to which he retired to compose his immortal verses. A monument erected to his memory and inscribed with his name stood in the middle of the city--it was adorned with s.p.a.cious porticos under which the citizens a.s.sembled."

Source of deep feeling--of surpa.s.sing love-- Creative power,--'tis thou hast peopled heaven Since man from dust arose His birth the cherub owes [FN#4]

To thee--by thee his rapturous harp was given And white wings tipp'd with gold that cool the domes above.

[FN#4] The Indians (says M. de Voltaire) from whom every species of theology is derived, invented the angels and represented them in their ancient book the "Shasta," as immortal creatures, partic.i.p.ating in the divinity of their creator; against whom a great number revolted in heaven, "Les Parsis ignicoles, qui subsistent encore ont communique a l'auteur de la religion des anciens Perses les noms des anges que les premiers Perses reconnaissaient. On en trouve cent-dix- neuf, parmi desquels ne sont ni Raphael ni Gabriel que les Perses n'adopterent que long-tems apres. Ces mots sont Chaldeens; ils ne furent connus des Juifs que dans leur captivite."