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waiting for MELES, the first of seven who seek her hand, he appears before her and declares his passion:

Then lowly bending with seraphic grace,

The vase he proffer'd full; and not a gem
Drawn forth successive from its sparkling place,
But put to shame the Persian diadem;
While he, "Nay, let me o'er thy white arms bind
These orient pearls, less smooth; EGLA, for thee,
My thrilling substance pain'd by storm and wind,
I sought them in the caverns of the sea.
Look! here's a ruby; drinking solar rays,
I saw it redden on a mountain-tip;
Now on thy snowy bosom let it blaze;

'T will blush still deeper to behold thy lip. Here's for thy hair a garland; every flower

That spreads its blossoms, water'd by the tear
Of the sad slave in Babylonian bower,

Might see its frail bright hues perpetuate here.
For morn's light bell, this changeful amethyst;
A sapphire for the violet's tender blue;
Large opals, for the queen-rose zephyr-kist;
And here are emeralds of every hue,

For folded bud and leaflet dropp'd with dew.
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-chemic sun in earth's dark bosom wrought To prison thus a ray, that when dull night

Frowns o'er her realms, and nature's all seems naught,
She whom he grieves to leave may still behold his light."

Thus spoke he on, while still the wondering maid
Gazed as a youthful artist; rapturously
Each perfect, smooth, harmonious limb survey'd,
Insatiate still her beauty-loving eye.
For ZOPHIEL wore a mortal form; and blent

In mortal form, when perfect, Nature shows
Her all that's fair enhanced; fire, firmament,
Ocean, earth, flowers, and gems,-all there disclose
Their charms epitomised: 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.
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 ;
Or when the lilies, sleepier perfume, move,
Disturb'd by two young sister fawns, that play
Among their graceful stalks at morn, and love
From their white cells to lap the dew away.
She strove to speak, but 't was 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 lithed reptile in some lonely grove,
With fix'd bright eye of fascinating flame,
Lures on by slow degrees the plaining dove:

So nearer, nearer still the bride and spirit came.
Success seem'd his; but secret, in the height
Of exultation, as he braved the power
Which baffled him at morn, a secret light
Shot from his eye, with guilt and treachery fraught.

Nature in her children oft bestows

The quick, untaught perception; and while Art O'ertasks himself with guile, loves to disclose

The dark thought in the eye, to warn the o'er-trusting Or haply, 't was some airy guardian foil'd

[heart;

The sprite. What mix'd emotions shook his breast, When her fair hand, ere he could clasp, recoil'd!

The spell was broke, and doubts and terrors prest Her sore. While ZOPHIEL: "MELES' step I heardHe's a betrayer!-wilt receive him still ?" The rosy blood driven to her heart by fear, She said, in accents faint but firm, "I will."

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 through the pale, gray moonlight MELES stept. But ere he yet, with haste, could throw aside His broider'd belt and sandals-dread to tell, Eager he sprang-he sought to clasp his brideHe stopp'd ;-a groan was heard-he gasp'd and fell Low by the couch of her who widow'd lay,

Her ivory hands, convulsive, clasp'd in prayer, But lacking power to move; and when 't was day, A cold, black corpse was all of MELES there.

Four other lovers, in succession, seek the chamber of EGLA, and perish. The fifth, ALTHEETOR, a page of the King of Medea, unterrified by the fate of others, approaches her.

Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet,

Enter'd the youth, so pensive, pale, and fair; Advanced respectful to the virgin's feet,

And, lowly bending down, made tuneful parlance there. Like perfume, soft his gentle accents rose,

And sweetly thrill'd the gilded roof along ; His warm, devoted soul no terror knows,

And truth and love lend fervour to his song. She hides her face upon her couch, that there

She may not see him die. No groan,-she springs Frantic between a hope-beam and despair,

And twines her long hair round him as he sings.
Then thus: "O! being, who unseen but near,

Art hovering now, behold and pity me!
For love, hope, beauty, music,-all that's dear,
Look, look on me, and spare my agony!
"Spirit! in mercy make not me the cause,

The hateful cause of this kind being's death!

In pity kill me first! He lives-he draws

Thou wilt not blast 3-he draws his harmless breath!" Still lives ALTHEETOR; still unguarded strays One hand o'er his fallen lyre; but all his soul Is lost-given up. He fain would turn to gaze, But cannot turn, so twined. Now all that stole Through every vein, and thrill'd each separate nerve, Himself could not have told,-all wound and clasp'd In her white arms and hair. Ah! can they serve

To save him? "What a sea of sweets!" he gasp'd,
But 't was delight: sound, fragrance, all were breathing..
Still swell'd the transport: "Let me look and thank:"
He sighed, (celestial smiles his lip enwreathing)——
"I die-but ask no more," he said, and sank;
Still by her arms supported-lower-lower
As by soft sleep oppress'd; so calm, so fair,

He rested on the purple tap'stried floor;
It seem'd an angel lay reposing there.

He died of love; or the o'erperfect joy
Of being pitied-pray'd for-press'd by thee.
O! for the fate of that devoted boy

I'd sell my birthright to Eternity.
I'm not the cause of this thy last distress.
Nay! look upon thy spirit ere he flies!
Look on me once, and learn to hate me less!

He said; and tears fell fast from his immortal eyes.

Resolving that no mortal shall wed her, ZOPHIEL finally resolves to preserve EGLA, for his own society in perpetual youth and beauty; and with this intention he seeks PHAERION, one of the gentlest of the fallen spirits, made up of tenderness and love, and persuades him to lead the way to the palace of the gnomes, under the sea, where TAHATHYAM keeps the elixir of life. This episode,

N 2

MARIA BROOKS.

[Born about 1796.]

WE have in America few women who devote their lives to literature, and produce artistic works. There are many who write "fugitive pieces," calculated to give no offence, rather than to excite admiration, or provoke criticism. Commonplace sentiments are smoothly versified; but the scrupulous nicety of the public in regard to decorum, or the modesty of authors, prevents the sincere, bold, and natural expression of strong emotion. Prudery and affectation are every where offensive; but in poetry they are unpardonable.

arts.

Mrs. BROOKS-better known as Maria del Occidente-is not of this class. She is the poet of passion; her writings are distinguished by a fearlessness of thought and expression; she gives the heart its true voice. In an age which allows but little room for the development of character, and which would make men and women after conventional patterns, she has manifested individualism in her life, and originality in her works. She was born in Medford, near Boston, about the year 1795. Her maiden name was GoWAN. She very early manifested a love for literature and the fine Before she was nine years old, it is said, she had committed to memory many passages by SHAKSPEARE, POPE, MILTON, and other great authors; and at twelve she was a proficient in painting and music. At the early age of fourteen, she was betrothed, and as soon as her education was finished, married, to Mr. BROOKS, a merchant of Boston. The first few years of her womanhood were passed in affluence; but by some disasters at sea the wealth of her husband was lost, and in the period which followed, poetry was resorted to for amusement and consolation. She wrote at nineteen a metrical romance, in seven cantos, but it was never published. In 1820, a small volume of her writings, entitled "Judith, Esther, and other Poems, by a Lover of the Fine Arts," appeared, after having been submitted to some of her friends, who were professors in Harvard University, by whom a favourable judgment of its merits was expressed. It contained many creditable passages, and was praised in some of the critical journals of this country and England. The following lines are descriptive of one of the characters:

With even step, in mourning garb array'd,

Fair JUDITH walk'd, and grandeur mark'd her air; Though humble dust, in pious sprinklings laid, Soil'd the dark tresses of her copious hair. The next stanza alludes to her son :

Softly supine his rosy limbs reposed,

His locks curl'd high, leaving the forehead bare; And o'er his eyes the light lids gently closed,

As they had fear'd to hide the brilliance there. The second poem in this volume was founded on the book of Esther. The following verses de

scribe the preparations of the heroine for appearing before the king.

"Take ye, my maids, this mournful garb away; Bring all my glowing gems and garments fair; A nation's fate impending hangs to-day

But on my beauty and your duteous care."
Prompt to obey, her ivory form they lave;
Some comb and braid her hair of wavy gold;
Some softly wipe away the limpid wave
That o'er her dimply limbs in drops of fragrance roll'd.
Refresh'd and faultless from their hands she came,
Like form celestial clad in raiment bright;
O'er all her garb rich India's treasures flame,
In mingling beams of rainbow colour'd light.
Graceful she enter'd the forbidden court,

Her bosom throbbing with her purpose high;
Slow were her steps, and unassumed her port,
While hope just trembled in her azure eye.
Light on the marble fell her ermine tread,
And when the king reclined in musing mood,
Lifts at the gentle sound his stately head,
Low at his feet the sweet intruder stood.

Soon after the death of her husband, in 1821, Mrs. BROOKS became the possessor of some property in the island of Cuba; and since that time she has not resided permanently in this country.

"Zophiel, or the Bride of Seven, by Maria del Occidente," was published in London, in 1833. The first canto had been printed, with a few miscellaneous pieces, at Boston, in 1825, but the poem was not completed until 1831, when the last notes to it were written, in Paris. At the time of its publication, Mrs. BROOKS was the guest of RoBERT SOUTHEY, who corrected the proof-sheets as it passed through the press, and who, in «The Doctor," and other works, has alluded to it as one of the most remarkable productions of female genius. The germ of the story is in the sixth, seventh, and eighth chapters of the apocryphal book of TOBIT; but in endeavouring to give authority for the incidents of the poem, the author has not referred to the sacred writings. By the fathers of the Greek and Roman churches, it was supposed that demons or fallen angels, in an early age, had wandered about the earth, formed attachments to beautiful mortals, and caused themselves, at times, to be worshipped as divinities. ZOPHIEL, an outcast angel, is enamoured of EGLA, the apocryphal SARA; and while, in her bridal chamber, she is

*MARIA DEL OCCIDENTE-otherwise, we believe, Mrs. BROOKS-is styled in "The Doctor," &c. "the most impassioned and most imaginative of all poetesses." And without taking into account quædam ardentiora scattered here and there throughout her singular poem, there is undoubtedly ground for the first clause, and, with the more accurate substitution of "fanciful" for "imaginative" for the whole of the eulogy. It is altogether an extraor dinary performance.-London Quarterly Review.

waiting for MELES, the first of seven who seek her hand, he appears before her and declares his passion:

Then lowly bending with seraphic grace,

The vase he proffer'd full; and not a gem
Drawn forth successive from its sparkling place,
But put to shame the Persian diadem;
While he, "Nay, let me o'er thy white arms bind
These orient pearls, less smooth; EGLA, for thee,
My thrilling substance pain'd by storm and wind,
I sought them in the caverns of the sea.
Look! here's a ruby; drinking solar rays,
I saw it redden on a mountain-tip;
Now on thy snowy bosom let it blaze;

'T will blush still deeper to behold thy lip.
Here's for thy hair a garland; every flower
That spreads its blossoms, water'd by the tear
Of the sad slave in Babylonian bower,

Might see its frail bright hues perpetuate here.
For morn's light bell, this changeful amethyst;
A sapphire for the violet's tender blue;
Large opals, for the queen-rose zephyr-kist;
And here are emeralds of every hue,

For folded bud and leaflet dropp'd with dew.
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-chemic sun in earth's dark bosom wrought To prison thus a ray, that when dull night

Frowns o'er her realms, and nature's all seems naught,
She whom he grieves to leave may still behold his light."

Thus spoke he on, while still the wondering maid
Gazed as a youthful artist; rapturously
Each perfect, smooth, harmonious limb survey'd,
Insatiate still her beauty-loving eye.
For ZOPHIEL Wore a mortal form; and blent

In mortal form, when perfect, Nature shows
Her all that's fair enhanced; fire, firmament,
Ocean, earth, flowers, and gems,-all there disclose
Their charms epitomised: 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.
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 ;
Or when the lilies, sleepier perfume, move,
Disturb'd by two young sister fawns, that play
Among their graceful stalks at morn, and love
From their white cells to lap the dew away.
She strove to speak, but 't was 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 lithed reptile in some lonely grove,
With fix'd bright eye of fascinating flame,
Lures on by slow degrees the plaining dove:

So nearer, nearer still the bride and spirit came.
Success seem'd his; but secret, in the height
Of exultation, as he braved the power
Which baffled him at morn, a secret light
Shot from his eye, with guilt and treachery fraught.

Nature in her children oft bestows

The quick, untaught perception; and while Art O'ertasks himself with guile, loves to disclose The dark thought in the eye, to warn the o'er-trusting Or haply, 't was some airy guardian foil'd

[heart;

The sprite. What mix'd emotions shook his breast, When her fair hand, ere he could clasp, recoil'd!

The spell was broke, and doubts and terrors prest Her sore. While ZOPHIEL: "MELES' step I heardHe's a betrayer!-wilt receive him still ?" The rosy blood driven to her heart by fear, She said, in accents faint but firm, "I will.”

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 through the pale, gray moonlight MELES stept.
But ere he yet, with haste, could throw aside
His broider'd belt and sandals-dread to tell,
Eager he sprang-he sought to clasp his bride-
He stopp'd ;-a groan was heard-he gasp'd and fell
Low by the couch of her who widow'd lay,

Her ivory hands, convulsive, clasp'd in prayer,
But lacking power to move; and when 't was day,
A cold, black corpse was all of MELES there.

Four other lovers, in succession, seek the chamber of EGLA, and perish. The fifth, ALTHEETOR, a page of the King of Medea, unterrified by the fate of others, approaches her.

Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet,

Enter'd the youth, so pensive, pale, and fair; Advanced respectful to the virgin's feet,

And, lowly bending down, made tuneful parlance there. Like perfume, soft his gentle accents rose,

And sweetly thrill'd the gilded roof along; His warm, devoted soul no terror knows,

And truth and love lend fervour to his song. She hides her face upon her couch, that there

She may not see him die. No groan, she springs Frantic between a hope-beam and despair,

And twines her long hair round him as he sings.
Then thus: "O! being, who unseen but near,

Art hovering now, behold and pity me!
For love, hope, beauty, music,—all that's dear,
Look, look on me, and spare my agony!
"Spirit! in mercy make not me the cause,

The hateful cause of this kind being's death!

In pity kill me first! He lives-he draws-

Thou wilt not blast 3-he draws his harmless breath!" Still lives ALTHEETOR; still unguarded strays One hand o'er his fallen lyre; but all his soul Is lost-given up. He fain would turn to gaze, But cannot turn, so twined. Now all that stole Through every vein, and thrill'd each separate nerve, Himself could not have told,-all wound and clasp'd In her white arms and hair. Ah! can they serve

To save him? "What a sea of sweets!" he gasp'd, But 't was delight: sound, fragrance, all were breathing.. Still swell'd the transport: "Let me look and thank:" He sighed, (celestial smiles his lip enwreathing)"I die-but ask no more," he said, and sank; Still by her arms supported-lower-lower As by soft sleep oppress'd; so calm, so fair, He rested on the purple tap'stried floor;

It seem'd an angel lay reposing there.

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He died of love; or the o'erperfect joy
Of being pitied-pray'd for-press'd by thee.
O! for the fate of that devoted boy

I'd sell my birthright to Eternity.
I'm not the cause of this thy last distress.
Nay! look upon thy spirit ere he ffies!
Look on me once, and learn to hate me less!

He said; and tears fell fast from his immortal eyes. Resolving that no mortal shall wed her, ZOPHIEL finally resolves to preserve EGLA, for his own society in perpetual youth and beauty; and with this intention he seeks PHAERION, one of the gentlest of the fallen spirits, made up of tenderness and love, and persuades him to lead the way to the palace of the gnomes, under the sea, where TAHATHYAM keeps the elixir of life. This episode,

which forms the third canto of the poem, I have quoted. A drop of the elixir is obtained, and lost on the return of the spirits to the upper air, in a tempest raised by LUCIFER. Finally, HELON, who weds EGLA, puts ZOPHIEL to flight, and in the deserts of Ethiopia, the fallen angel is visited by RAPHAEL, who gives him hopes of restoration to his original rank in Heaven.

Since the appearance of "Zophiel," Mrs. BROOKS has published but little. It is understood, however, that she has written an epic poem, of which CoLUMBUS is the hero, that will soon be given to the world. Her appreciation of the sublime in sentiment, and the noble and daring in action, qualify her well to delineate the character of the great discoverer. She recently resided several years in the vicinity of the Military Academy at West

Point, where one of her sons, now an officer in the United States army, was educated; but she has since returned to the island of Cuba.

Mrs. BROOKS is the only American poet of her sex whose mind is thoroughly educated. She is familiar with the literature of Greece, Rome, and the oriental nations, and with the languages and letters of southern Europe. Learning, brilliant imagination, and masculine boldness of thought and diction, are characteristics of her works. In some of her descriptions she is, perhaps, too minute; and at times, by her efforts to condense, she becomes obscure. The stanza of "Zophiel" will probably never be very popular; and though the poem may, to use the language of Mr. SOUTHEY, have a permanent place in the literature of our language, it will never be generally admired.

PALACE OF GNOMES.*

"Tis now the hour of mirth, the hour of love,
The hour of melancholy: night, as vain
Of her full beauty, seems to pause above,
That all may look upon her ere it wane.
The heavenly angel watch'd his subject star,

O'er all that's good and fair benignly smiling; The sighs of wounded love he hears, from far, Weeps that he cannot heal, and wafts a hope beguiling.

The nether earth looks beauteous as a gem;

High o'er her groves in floods of moonlight laving, The towering palm displays his silver stem, The while his plumy leaves scarce in the breeze are waving.

The nightingale among his roses sleeps;

The soft-eyed doe in thicket deep is sleeping; The dark-green myrrh her tears of fragrance weeps,

Here, cerea, too, thy clasping mazes twine
The only pillar time has left erect;
Thy serpent arms embrace it, as 't were thine,
And roughly mock the beam it should reflect.
An ancient prince, in happy madness blest,

Was wont to wander to this spot, and deem'd
A water-nymph came to him, and caress'd,
And loved him well; haply he only dream'd;
But on the spot a little dome arose,

And flowers were set, that still in wildness bloom; And the cold ashes that were him, repose,

Carefully shrined in this lone ivory tomb. It is a place so strangely wild and sweet,

That spirits love to come; and now, upon A moonlight fragment, ZOPHIEL chose his seat, In converse with the soft РHRAERION; Who on the moss beside him lies reclining, O'erstrewn with leaves, from full-blown roses shaken,

And every odorous spike in limpid dew is steeping. By nightingales, that on their branches twining, Proud, prickly cerea, now thy blossom 'scapes

Its cell; brief cup of light; and seems to say, "I am not for gross mortals: blood of grapesAnd sleep for them. Come, spirits, while ye may!"

A silent stream winds darkly through the shade, And slowly gains the Tigris, where 't is lost; By a forgotten prince, of old, 't was made,

And in its course full many a fragment cross'd Of marble, fairly carved; and by its side

Her golden dust the flaunting lotos threw
O'er her white sisters, throned upon the tide,
And queen of every flower that loves perpetual
dew.

Gold-sprinkling lotos, theme of many a song,
By slender Indian warbled to his fair!
Still tastes the stream thy rosy kiss, though long
Has been but dust the hand that placed thee
there.

The little temple where its relics rest

Long since has fallen; its broken columns lie Beneath the lucid wave, and give its breast A whiten'd glimmer as 't is stealing by.

* The third canto of Zophiel.

The live-long night to love and music waken. PHRAERION, gentle sprite! nor force nor fire He had to wake in others doubt or fear: He'd hear a tale of bliss, and not aspire To taste himself: 't was meet for his compeer. No soul-creative in this being born,

Its restless, daring, fond aspirings hid: Within the vortex of rebellion drawn,

He join'd the shining ranks as others did. Success but little had advanced; defeat

He thought so little, scarce to him were worse; And, as he held in heaven inferior seat,

Less was his bliss, and lighter was his curse. He form'd no plans for happiness: content To curl the tendril, fold the bud; his pain So light, he scarcely felt his banishment.

ZOPHIEL, perchance, had held him in disdain; But, form'd for friendship, from his o'erfraught soul "T was such relief his burning thoughts to pour In other ears, that oft the strong control

Of pride he felt them burst, and could restrain

no more.

ZOPHIEL was soft, but yet all flame; by turns Love, grief, remorse, shame, pity, jealousy,

Each boundless in his breast, impels or burns:

His joy was bliss, his pain was agony. And mild PHRAERION was of heaven, and there Nothing imperfect in its kind can be: There every form is fresh, soft, bright, and fair, Yet differing each, with that variety, Not least of miracles, which here we trace:

And wonder and admire the cause that form'd So like, and yet so different, every face,

Throughout fair Ecbatane the deeds I've wrought Have cast such dread, that, of all SARDIUS' train, I doubt if there be one, from tent or court, Who'll try what 't is to thwart a spirit's love again.

My EGLA, left in her acacia grove,

Has learnt to lay aside that piteous fear That sorrow'd thee; and I but live to prove A love for her as harmless as sincere.

Though of the self-same clay, by the same pro- Inspirer of the arts of Greece, I charm

cess warm'd.

"Order is heaven's first law." But that obey'd, The planets fix'd, the Eternal mind at leisure, A vast profusion spread o'er all it made,

As if in endless change were found eternal pleasure.

Harmless PHRAERION, form'd to dwell on high,
Retain'd the looks that had been his above;
And his harmonious lip, and sweet, blue eye,
Soothed the fallen seraph's heart, and changed
his scorn to love;

Who, when he saw him in some garden pleasant,
Happy, because too little thought had he
To place in contrast past delight with present,
Had given his soul of fire for that inanity.
But, O! in him the Eternal had infused

The restless soul that doth itself devour,
Unless it can create; and fallen, misused,

But forms the vast design to mourn the feeble power.

In plenitude of love, the Power benign

Nearer itself some beings fain would lift; To share its joys, assist its vast design

With high intelligence; O, dangerous gift! Superior passion, knowledge, force, and fire,

The glorious creatures took; but each the slave Of his own strength, soon burn'd with wild desire, And basely turn'd it 'gainst the hand that gave.

But ZOPHIEL, fallen sufferer, now no more Thought of the past; the aspiring voice was mute, That urged him on to meet his doom before,

And all dissolved to love each varied attribute. "Come, my PHRAERION, give me an embrace," He said. "I hope a respite of repose, Like that respiring from thy sunny face; Even the peace thy guileless bosom knows. Rememberest thou that cave of Tigris, where

We went with fruits and flowers, and meteor light, And the fair creature, on the damp rock, there Shivering and trembling so? Ah! well she might!

False were my words. infernal my intent,

Then, as I knelt before her feet, and sued; Yet still she blooms, uninjured, innocent, Though now, for seven long months, by ZOPHIEL watch'd and woo'd.

Gentle PHRAERION, 't is for her I crave

Assistance: what I could have blighted then, 'Tis now my only care to guard and save; Companion, then, my airy flight again. Conduct me to those hoards of sweets and dews, Treasured in haunts to all but thee unknown, For favourite sprites: teach me their power and use, And whatsoe'er thou wilt of ZOPHIEL, be it done!

Her ears with songs she never heard before; And many an hour of thoughtfulness disarm With stories cull'd from that vague, wondrous lore,

But seldom told to mortals:-arts on gems
Inscribed that still exist; but hidden so
From fear of those who told that diadems
Have pass'd from brows that vainly ached to
know:

Nor glimpse had mortal, save that those fair things
Loved, ages past, like her I now adore,
Caught from their angels some low whisperings,
Then told of them to such as dared not tell them

more;

But toil'd in lonely nooks, far from the cye

Of shuddering, longing men; then, buried deep, Till distant ages bade their secrets lie,

In hopes that time might tell what their dread oaths must keep.

EGLA looks on me doubtful, but amused;

Admires, but, trembling, dares not bid me stay; Yet, hour by hour, her timid heart, more used,

Grows to my sight and words; and when a day I leave her, for my needful cares, at leisure, To muse upon and feel her lonely state; At my returning, though restrain'd her pleasure, There needs no spirit's eye to see she does not hate.

Oft have I look'd in mortal hearts, to know

How love, by slow advances, knows to twine Each fibre with his wreaths; then overthrow

At once each stern resolve. The maiden's mine! Yet I have never press'd her ermine hand,

Nor touch'd the living coral of her lip; Though, listening to its tones, so sweet, so bland, I've thought-O, impious thought!—who form'd might sip!

Most impious thought! Soul, I would rein thee in,

E'en as the quick-eyed Parthian quells his steeds; But thou wilt start, and rise, and plunge in sin, Till gratitude weeps out, and wounded reason bleeds!

Soul, what a mystery thou art! not one

Admires, or loves, or worships virtue more Than I; but passion hurls me on, till torn

By keen remorse, I cool, to curse me and deplore. But to my theme. Now, in the stilly night, I hover o'er her fragrant couch, and sprinkle Sweet dews about her, as she slumbers light, Dews sought, with toil, beneath the pale star's twinkle,

From plants of secret virtue. All for lust

Too high and pure my bliss; her gentle breath I hear, inhale, then weep; (for, O, she must: That form is mortal, and must sleep in death.)

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