Classic Poem

I.

The time has been--this holiest records say--
In punishment for crimes of mortal birth,
When spirits banished from the realms of day
Wandered malignant o'er the nighted earth.

And from the cold and marble lips declared,
Of some blind-worshipped--earth-created god,
Their deep deceits; which trusting monarchs snared
Filling the air with moans, with gore the sod.

Yet angels doffed their robes in radiance dyed,
And for a while the joys of heaven delayed,
To watch benign by some just mortal's side--
Or meet th' aspiring love of some high gifted maid.

Blest were those days!--can these dull ages boast
Aught to compare? tho' now no more beguile--
Chain'd in their darkling depths th' infernal host--
Who would not brave a fiend to share an angel's smile?





II.

'Twas then there lived a captive Hebrew pair;
In woe th' 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.

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.

Yet not, perverted, would my words imply
The impulse given by Heaven's great Artizan
Alike to man and worm--mere spring, whereby
The distant wheels of life, while time endures, roll on--

But the collective ministry that fill
About the soul, their all-important place--
That feed her fires--empower her fainting will--
And write the god on feeble mortals face.


III.

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 pitious wept to see that pain returned.

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

If haply such the lovely Hebrew finds,
Self knowledge wept th' abasing truth to know,
And innate pride, that queen of noble minds,
Crushed them indignant ere a bud could grow.


IV.

And such--ev'n now, in earliest youth are seen--
But would they live, with armour more deform,
Their love--o'erflowing breasts must learn to screen:
"The bird that sweetest sings can least endure the storm."


V.

And yet, despite of all the gushing tear--
The melting tone--the darting heart-stream--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.


VI.

And this, at intervals in language bright
Told her blue eyes; tho' oft the tender lid
Like lilly drooping languidly; and 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 pagans their Minerva painted;

While o'er her graceful shoulders' milky swell,
Like those full oft on little children seen
Almost to earth her silken ringlets fell
Nor owned Pactolus' sands more golden sheen.


VII.

And now, full near, the hour unwished for drew
When fond, Sephora hoped to see her wed;
And, for 'twould else expire, impatient grew
To renovate her race from beauteous Egla's bed.


VIII.

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 harkening her desire

Still left her free; but soon her mother drew
From her a vow, that when the twentieth year
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.


IX.

Now oft it happ'd when morning task was done
And for the virgins of her household made
And lotted each her toil; while yet the sun
Was young, fair Egla to a woody shade,

Loved to retreat; there, in the fainting hour
Of sultry noon the burning sunbeam fell
Like a warm twilight; so bereft of power,
It gained an entrance thro' the leafy bower;
That scarcely shrank the tender lilly bell

Tranquil and lone in such a light to be,
How sweet to sense and soul!--the form recline
Forgets it ere felt pain; and reverie,
Sweet mother of the muses, heart and soul are thine.






X.

This calm recess on 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 for th' unseemly throng

Of boding images. She scarce could woo
One song reluctant, ere advancing quick
Thro' the fresh leaves Sephora'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 fevered pulse, she met the pressure, kind

And warmly given; while thus the matron fair
Nor yet much marr'd by time, with soothing words
Solicitous; and gently serious air
The purpose why she hither came preferr'd:


XI.

"Egla, my hopes thou knowest--tho' exprest
But rare lest they should pain thee--I have dealt
Not rudely towards thee tender; and supprest
The wish, of all, my heart has most vehement 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 seem'd 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 has guarded well.


XII.

"Dost waste so oft alone--the cheerful day?
Or haply, rather bath some pagan youth"--
She with quick burst--'whate'er has happ'd I'll say!
Doubt thou my wisdom, but regard my truth!


XIII.

"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 many a wishful thought

"Of desolate Judea. Every scene
Which thou so oft, while sitting on thy knee,
Wouldst sing of, weeping, thro' my mind has been
Successive; when from yon old mossy tree

"I heard a pitious moan. Wondering I went
And found a wretched man; worn and opprest
He seemed with toil and years; and whispering faint
He said "Oh little maiden, sore distrest

"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 needs supply."


XIV.

"A long time missing from thy fondling arms--
It chanced that day thou'dst sent me in the shade
New bread, a cake of figs, and wine of palms
Mingled with water, sweet with honey made.

"These did I bring--raised as I could, 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 draft.




XV.

"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 bides 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 bend o'er the brink, and in their view,
But ah! too far beyond their aid--he fell.


XVI.

"They wailed--the long torn ringlets of their hair
Freighted the pitying gale; deep rolled the stream
And swallowed the fair child; no succour there--
They women--whither look--who to redeem

"What the fierce waves were preying on?--when lo!
Approached a stranger boy. Aside he flung,
As darted thought, his quiver and his bow
And parted by his limbs the sparkling billows sung.


[.


XVII.

"They clung to an old palm and watched; nor breath
Nor word dared utter; while the refluent flood
Left on each countenance the hue of death,
Ope'd lip and far strained eye spoke worse than death endured.


XVIII.

"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 deep, dark waters curled.

"Then Hope groaned forth her last; and drear despair
Spoke in a shriek; but ere its echo wild
Had ceased to thrill; restored to light and air--
He climbs, he gains the rock, and holds alive the child.


XIX.

"Now mark what chanced--that infant was the son
E'vn of the king of Nineveh: and placed
Before him was the youth who so had won
From death the royal heir. A captive graced

"All o'er with Nature's gifts he sparkled--brave
And panting for renown--blushing and praised
The stripling stood; and closely prest, would crave
Alone a place mid warlike men; and raised

"To his full wish, the kingly presence left,
Buoyant and bright with hope; dreaming of nought
While revelled his full soul in visions deft,
But blessings from his sire and pleasures of a court.


XX.

"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-grown-hopes, exulting at his heart."


XXI.

"The old man ceased; ere I could speak, his face
Grew more than mortail fair: a mellow light
Mantling around him fill'd the shady place
And while I wondering stood; he vanished from my sight.


XXII.

"This I had told,--but shame withheld--and fear
Thou'dst deem some spirit guilded me--disapprove--
Perchance forbid my customed wanderings here;
But whencesoe'er the vision, I have strove

"Still vainly to forget--I've heard the mourn
Kindred afar, and captive--oh! my mother--
Should he--my heaven announced--exist, return--
And meet me drear--lost--wedded to another"--

Then thus Sephora, "In the city where
Our kindred distant dwelt--blood has been shed--
Dreamer, had such heroic boy been there,
Belike he's numbered with the silent dead.

"Or doth he live he knows not--would not know
(Thralled--dead, to thee--in fair Assyrian arms.)
Who pines for him afar in fruitless woe
A phantom's bride--wasting love, life and charms.


XXIII.

"'Tis as a vine of Galilee should say,
Culturer, I reck not thy support, I sigh
For a young palm tree, of Euphrates; nay--
Or let me him entwine or in my blossom die.

"Thy heart is set on joys it may not prove,
And, panting ingrate, scorns the blessings given?--
Hoping from dust formed man, a seraph's love
And days on earth like to the days of heaven.


XXIV.

"But to my theme, maiden, a lord for thee,
And not of thee unworthy--I have chose--
Dispel the dread, that in thy looks I see--
Nor make it task of anguish to disclose,

"What should be--thine heart's dew. Remember'st thou
When to the Altar, by thy father reared,
We suppliant went with sacrifice and vow,
A victim-dove escaped? and there appeared

"And would have brought thee others to supply
Its loss, a Median?--thou, dissolved, to praise,
Didst note the beauty of his shape and eye,
And, as he parted, in the sunny rays

"The ringlets of his black locks clustering bright
Around his pillar-neck," ''tis pity he'
Thou saidst, 'in all the comeliness and might
Of perfect man--pity like him, should be

"But an idolater: how nobly sweet
He tempereth pride with courtesy; a flower
Drops honey when he speaks. Yet 'twere most meet
To praise his majesty: he stands--a tower.'

"The same, a false idolater no more,
Now bows him to the God, for whose dread ire
Fall'n on us loved but sinning, we deplore
This long but just captivity. Thy sire

"Receives him well and harkens his request
For know, he comes to ask thee-for a bride
And to be one among a people, blest
Tho' deep in suffering. Nor to him denied

"Art thou, sad daughter--weep--if't be thy will--
E'vn on the breast that nourished thee and ne'er
Distrest thee or compelled; this bosom still
Ev'n should'st though 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,
Let my heart pine regardless of thy vow."


XXV.

She thus, 'O think not, kindest, I forget,
Receiving so much love, how much is due
From me to thee: the Mede I'll wed--but yet
I cannot stay these tears that gush to pain thy view.'


XXVI.

Sephora held her to 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

Sighed forth o'erpowering breath; 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. 'Tis thus, kind Nature lets our woe
Swell 'til 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 to rest.


XXVII.

Now all the mortal maid lies indolent
Save one sweet cheek which the cool velvet turf
Had touched too rude, tho' all the 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; and quickly heaved

Beneath her robe's white folds and azure zone,
Her heart yet incomposed; a fillet thro'
Peeped brightly 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 eye brow--just so dark might well define
Its flexile arch;--throne of expression's charm.


XXVIII.

As the vexed Caspian, tho' 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
Tho' passion and its pains were lulled to rest,
And "even and anon" a pitious sob
Shook the pure arch expansive o'er her breast.



XXIX.

Save that 'twas all tranquillity; that reigned
O'er fragrance sound and beauty; all was mute--
Save when a dove her dear one's absence plained
And the faint breeze mourned o'er the slumberer's lute.


XXX.

It chanced, that day, lured by the verdure, came
Zophiel, now minister of ill; but ere
He sinned, a heavenly angel. The faint flame
Of dying embers, on an altar, where

Raguel, fair Egla's sire, in secret vowed
And sacrificed to the sole living God,
Where friendly shades the sacred rites enshround;--
The fiend beheld and knew; his 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.


XXXI.

When fiercer spirits, howled, he but complained
Ere yet 'twas his to roam the pleasant earth,
His heaven-invented harp he still retained
Tho' 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 spirit less severe where he might lift
His plaining voice--and frame the like as now he sung:


XXXII.

"Woe to thee, wild ambition, I employ
Despair's dull notes thy dread effects to tell,
Born in high-heaven, her peace thou could'st destroy,
And, but for thee, there had not been a hell.