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-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."

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 few who chance to hear thy trembling breath,
My lyre, for her who wakes thee, have a sigh. [FN#6]

[FN#6] It may not be improper to observe that these stanzas were composed during a period of misfortune and dejection.

Forsake me not! none ever loved thee more!
Fair queen, I'll meet woe's fearfulest frown—and smile;
          If mid the scene severe
          Thou'lt drop on me one tear,
And let thy flitting form sometimes beguile
The present of its ills—I'll scorn them and adore.

Then warm the form relentless fate would chill—
Dark lours my night—Oh! give me one embrace!
          If every pain I bear
          Befit me for thy care,
Come sorrow—scorn—desertion—I can chase
Despair, fell watching for her victim still.

ZOPHIEL.

CANTO I.

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.(1)

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. [FN#7]

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. [FN#8]

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?

[FN#7] The god who conducted the Hebrews sent a malignant spirit to speak from the mouth of the prophets, in order to deceive king Achab.

[FN#8] It is useless to note this stanza, as two well-known poems have lately been founded on the same passage of the Pentateuch to which it alludes.

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