The International Weekly Miscellany - Volume I, No. 3 | Page 3

iron-shod staff of the mountaineer. I have not seen her drinking from the cup of bacchanals and smoking indolently reclining on a sofa like a sultana,--natural or affected eccentricities which for me could add nothing to her charms or her genius.
Is she more inspired when she causes a cloud of vapor to rise from her mouth about her hair? Did Lelia escape from the head of her mother through a burning mist, as Sin, according to Milton, proceeded from the head of the glorious and guilty archangel amid a whirlpool of smoke? I know not what passes in the sacred courts; but here below Neamede, Phila, Lais, Gnathene, the witty Phryne, the despair of the pencil of Apelles, and the chisel of Praxiteles, Le?na, beloved of Harmodias, the two sisters named Aphyes, because they were small and had large eyes, Dorica, the fillet of whose locks and embalmed robe were consecrated in the temple of Venus,--all these enchantresses knew only the perfumes of Arabia. It is true that Madame Sand has on her side the authority of the Odalisques and the young Mexicans who dance with cigars between their lips.
What effect has Madame Sand had upon me, after the few gifted women, and many charming women whom I have known--after those daughters of the earth, who like Madame Sand said with Sappho: "Come, Mother of Love, to our delicious banquets, fill our cups with the nectar of roses?" As I have placed myself now in fiction and now in reality, the author of Valentine has made on me two very different impressions.
As for fiction, I do not speak of it, for I ought no longer to understand its language; as for reality, a man of grave age, cherishing the notions of propriety, attaching as a Christian the highest value to the timid virtue of woman. I know not how to express my unhappiness at such a mass of rich endowments bestowed on the prodigal and faithless hours which are spent and vanish.
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MARIA BROOKS AND SOUTHEY.
It is well known that our countrywoman MARIA DEL OCCIDENTE was on terms of familiar intimacy with the poet-laureate, whose admiration of her genius is illustrated in several allusions to her in his works, and particularly in that passage of "The Doctor" in which she is described as "the most impassioned and imaginative of all poetesses." Southey superintended the publication of "Zophiel," in London, and afterward was a frequent correspondent of Mrs. Brooks, during her residence in New York and in Cuba. Among the souvenirs of Mrs. Brooke's grateful recollection of his kindness, are two or three short poems commemorating her visits to Keswick, and the following song, put into a lyrical form by her, from the blank verse of "Madoc."
PRINCE HOEL'S LAY OF LOVE.
I've harnessed thee, my faithful steed-- Now, by the ocean, prove thy speed, While, as we pass, th' advancing spray Shall kiss thy side of glossy gray;-- Oh! fairer than the ocean foam Is that cold maid for whom we roam! Her cheek is like the apple flower Or summer heavens, at evening hour, While, in her tender bashfulness, She starts and files my love's excess, Tho' dim my brow, beneath its mail, As ocean when the sun is pale. On, on! until my longing sight, Can fix upon that dwelling white, Beside a verdant bank that braves The ocean's ever-sounding waves;-- There, all alone, she loves to sing, Watching the silver sea-mew's wing. In crowded halls, my spirit flies To wait upon her; and wasting sighs Consume my nights; where'er I turn For her I pant, for her I burn, Who, like some timid, graceful bird, Shrinks from my glance and fears my word. I faint; my glow of youth is gone; Sleepless at night and sick at morn, My strength departs; I droop, I fade, Yet think upon that lonely maid, And pity her, the while I pine That she should spurn a love like mine This, Madoc took the harp to play; Cold in the earth Prince Hoel lay; And Llaian listened, fain to speak But wept as if her heart would break.
In this connection, writing of Southey, soon after intelligence was received in this country of the decay of his intelligence, from her coffee estate in Cuba, Mrs. Brooks says:
When a child of ten years old I could admire the poem "Madoc," such is the simplicity of its sentiments and the beauty of its delineations. Looking it over, here, (amidst the woods and canes of that island where repose the bones of Columbus,) the song of Prince Hoel attached itself to my thoughts, and has been (involuntarily) put into rhyme. This song may be found in the first part of the poem mentioned. The lyric metre in which it now appears must rather injure