Zophiel | Page 3

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 mass 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 god 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 circumstances, 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 spacious porticos under which the citizens assembled."
Source of deep feeling--of surpassing 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, participating 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-dixneuf, 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."
Husher of secret sighs--from childhood's hour?The slave of Fate, I've knelt before thy throne;
To thy loved courts have sped?Whene'er my heart has bled,?And every ray of bliss that heart has known?Has reached it thro' thy grief-dispelling power.
Fain thro' my native solitudes I'd roam?Bathe my rude harp in my bright native streams
Twine it with flowers that bloom?But for the deserts gloom,?Or, for the long and jetty hair that gleams?O'er the dark-bosomed maid that makes the wild her home. [FN#5]
[FN#5] This invocation when composed was intended to precede a series of poems entitled Occidental Eclogues; which work the writer has never found opportunity to finish.
I sing not for the crowd, or low or high--?A pensive wanderer on life's thorny heath
Earth's pageants for my view?Have nought: I love but few,?And