But the shrill warning reach'd him through the din Who thus entreats, "Up! to earth's pleasant fields! And flies the hungry depth that gorged his dear est treasure. What added torment-gain'd; then snatch'd away Press'd to his heart-and then, to feel it riven From heart and hand, while bearing it to day With joy complete as if recall'd to heaven! That which, to own was perfect transport, lost; Yet still, (to urge a dangerous course contending And the fierce passions which his bosom crost For pity, or some other hope, suspending ;) Resisting all, he forced a desperate way; His gentle phere with plaints no longer vain, Clung closer to his neck; nor ceased to pray To be restored to sun and flowers again. Thus all entwined they rose again to air, Near Lybia's coast. Black clouds,in mass deform, Were frowning; yet a moment's calm was there, As it had stopp'd to breathe a while the storm. Their white feet press'd the desert sod; they shook From their bright locks the briny drops; nor stay'd ZOPHIEL on ills, present or past, to look; For, weary as he was, his lonely maid Came to his ardent soul in all her charms; Unguarded she, what being might molest Even now! his chill'd and wounded substance warms But at the thought; the while he thus addrest The shivering sprite of flowers: "We must not stay; All is but desolation here, and gloom: Up! let us through the air, nor more delay; Nay, droop not now; a little more essay, I'll bear thee forward to thy bower of bloom, And on thy roses lay thee down to rest. Come through the desert! banquet on thy store Of dews and sweets. Come, warm thee at my breast! On! through the air, nor think of danger more, As grateful for the service thou hast done I live, though lost the object of our task, As if were still possess'd the treasure won; And all thou wouldst of ZOPHIEL, freely ask. The gnome, the secret path, the draught divine I know: TAHATHYAM sighs, beneath the wave, For mortal bride; valour and skill are mine; He may again bestow what once he gave." Thus, ZOPHIEL, renovated, though the air Was thick and dull, with just enough of hope To save him from the stupor of despair, Too much disdain'd the pains he felt, to droop. But soft PHRAERION, smarting from his toil, To buffet not a tempest was in plight; And beg some nearer shelter for the night; Raged fiercely round, and made him fain to rest In cave or tomb. But ZOPHIEL gently caught him, Sustain'd him firmly at his fearless breast, And twixt Euphrates and the Tigris brought him. Then paused a moment o'er a desert drear, Until the thunder-clouds around him burst; His flights renew'd, and wish'd for Media near; But stronger grows the gale: what sprites accurst Ride on the tempest? Warring elements Might not alone such ardent course impede; The wretched spirit from his speed relents With sense like mortal bosom, when they bleed. Loud and more loud the blast; in mingled gyre, Flew leaves and stones; and with a deafening "Rest,ZOPHIEL, rest!" PHRAERION cries: "the surge Was lesser pain; I cannot bear it more! Beaten in seas so long we but emerge To meet a fiercer conflict on the shore!" Then ZOPHIEL: "There's a little grot on high, The wild doves nestle there: it is secure; To Ectabane, but for an hour, I'll fly, And come for thee at morn: no more endure. Nay-wilt not leave me? then I'll bear thee through As lately through the whirling floods I bore." Still closer clinging, to his bosom grew The tender sprite; "then bear-I can no more." He said, and came a shock, as if the earth Crash'd 'gainst some other planet; shivered brands [birth!) Whirl round their heads; and (shame upon their Both sprites lay mazed and prostrate on the sands. But ZOPHIEL, stung with shame, and in a mood From its stupendous breast; and as it trod Before its princely feet receding on the sod. 'Twas still as death; save that the thunder spoke In mutterings low and far; a look severe Seemed as preluding speech; but ZOPHIEL broke The silence first: "Why, spirit, art thou here?" It waved its hand, and instantaneous came A hissing bolt with new impetus back; Darts round a group of verdant palms the flame; That being pointed to them, blasted black. "O! source of all my guilt! at such an hour," (The mortal-lover said,) "thine answer there I need not read: too well I know thy power I bend to thee, 't is not for dread of pain; Their strife. O! spare me this resistance rude But for an hour! let me but on in peace; So shall I taste the joy of gratitude, Even to thee."-"The joy?" then first with scorn Replied that sombre being: "dream'st thou still Of joy a thing accursed, demean'd, forlorn, As thou art? Is't for joy thou mock'st my will? Canst thou taste pleasure? banish'd, crush'd, debased." "I can, betrayer! dost thou envy me? But leave me to my wrongs, and I can taste Ev'n yet of heaven, spite of my fall and thee. But that affects not thee: thine insults spare But for an hour; leave me to go at will Only till morn, and I will back and bear Whate'er thou wilt. What dost obstruct me still? Thine armies dim, and shrouded in the storm Then I must meet; and weary thus, and torn, Essay the force of an immortal arm. Lone as I am, until another morn Shall shame both them and thee to thine abode. There, on the steam of human heart-blood spilt By priest or murderer, make repast; or brood Over the vile creations of thy guilt, Waste thy life-giving power on reptiles foul; Slow, slimy worms, and poisonous snakes; then watch, Like the poor brutes that, here, for hunger prowl, To mar the beauty that thou canst not match?" Thus he the other folded o'er its breast Its arms, and stood as cold and firm the while, As if no passion stirr❜d; save that express'd Its pale, pale lip, a faint, ferocious smile. While, blent with winds, ten thousand agents wage And strove, and toil'd, and strove, but could not mount on high. Then thus the torturer: "Hie thee to the bed Of her thou lov'st; pursue thy dear design; Go dew the golden ringlets of her head! Thou wait'st not, sure, for any power of mine. Yet better were the duties, spirit dull, Of thine allegiance! Win her o'er to me, Take all thou canst,-a pleasure brief but full, Vain dreamer, if not mine, she's lost to thee." "Wilt thou then hurt her? Why am I detain'd? O, strength! once serving 'gainst the powers above, [strain'd Where art thou now?" Thus ZOPHIEL; and he His wounded wings to mount,but could not move. Then thus the scorner: "Nay, be calm! I'll still The storm for thee: hear! it recedes-'t is ended. Yet, if thou dream'st success awaits thee, ill Dost thou conceive of boundless power offended. ZOPHIEL, bland sprite, sublime intelligence, Once chosen for my friend and worthy me; Not so wouldst thou have labour'd to be hence, I closer fought as peril thicken'd round, Watched o'er thee fallen: the light of heaven denied, But proved my love more fervent and profound. Prone as thou wert, had I been mortal-borne, And own'd as many lives as leaves there be, From all Hyrcania by his tempest torn I had lost them, one by one, and given the last for thee. Pain had a joy, for suffering could but wring Still unaccomplish'd were the curse of sin; Came the proposal; when the purpose burst Forth from thy heart's black den disclosed and bare, Then first I felt alone, and knew myself accurs'd. Though the first seraph form'd, how could I tell The ways of guile? What marvel I believed, When cold ambition mimick'd love so well, That half the sons of heaven looked on deceived? Ambition thine; to me the Eternal gave So much of love his kind design was cross'd: Held to thy heart I thought thee good as brave, Nor realized my guilt till all was lost. Now, writhing at my utmost need, how vain Are ZOPHIEL's tears and prayers! Alas! hea ven-born, Of all heaven's virtues, doth not one remain? That heighten'd cruelty: "yet know, from me, Thy foolish hopes but lure thee on awhile To wake thy sense to keener misery." "O! skill'd to torment! spare me! spare me now!" Chill'd by a dread foreboding, ZOPHIEL said: "But little time doth waning night allow." He knelt; he wept; calm grew the winds; he fled. The clouds disperse; his heavenly voice he sent In whispers through the caves; PHRAERION there, In covert loathed, to that low music lent His soft, quick ear, and sprang to join his phere. Soon through the desert, on their airy way, Mantled in dewy mists the spirits press'd, And reached fair Media ere the twilight gray Recall'd the rose's lover to his nest. But on the Tigris' winding banks, though night Still lingers round, two early mortals greet The first faint gleam with prayer; and bathed and dight As travellers came forth. The morn rose sweet. And rushing by them as the spirits past, In tinted vapours while the pale star sets; The younger asked, "Whence are these odours cast, The breeze has waked from beds of violets!" SONG.* DAY, in melting purple dying, Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure: Gifts and gold are nought to me, Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Yet but torture, if comprest Absent still! Ah! come and bless me ! In a look if death there be, THE MOON OF FLOWERS. O, MOON of flowers! sweet moon of flowers!† O, moon of flowers! thou moon of flowers! From "Zophiel." The savages of the northern part of America sometimes count by moons. May is called by them the moon of flowers, and October the moon of falling leaves. MORNING. How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun!- The rays that glance about his silken hair; And Luxury hangs her amber lamps, to match Thy face, when turn'd away from bower and palace fair. Sweet to the lip the draught, the blushing fruit; But comes to pay new homage to thy charms. How many lips have sung thy praise, how long! Yet, when his slumbering harp he feels thee woo, The pleasured bard pours forth another song, And finds in thee, like love, a theme forever new. The bright-hair'd youths and maidens of the north Refining all the way, from springs the sweetest. Haply, sometimes, spent with the sleepless night, Some wretch, impassion'd, from sweet morning's breath, Turns his hot brow, and sickens at thy light; But Nature, ever kind, soon heals or gives him death. MARRIAGE. THE bard has sung, God never form'd a soul But thousand evil things there are that hate To look on happiness; these hurt, impede, [fate, And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and pant and bleed. And as the dove to far Palmyra flying, From where her native founts of Antioch beam, Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream; So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring, Love's pure,congenial spring unfound, unquaff'd, Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and despairing Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught. JAMES G. PERCIVAL. [Born, 1795.] JAMES GATES PERCIVAL, the most prolific and fanciful of our poets, was born in Berlin, Connecticut, on the fifteenth of September, 1795. His father, an intelligent physician, superintended his early education, and saw in his correct taste, and manly character, and the remarkable facility with which he acquired knowledge, the promise of a brilliant life. He died in 1807, and the young stu. dent was intrusted to other guardians; but his mental culture was carefully attended to, and he entered Yale College in 1811, far advanced in classical and general learning. In his early devotion to study originated the love of seclusion which forms one of the distinguishing features in his character. From his youth he has been more fond of his own fancies than of society, and has therefore enjoyed few of the opportunities of observation which are found by mingling with the world. To his early habits of day-dreaming he has himself alluded in a poem on the Pleasures of Childhood: "Along the stream, He began to write at a very early age; but I believe he published very little before he went to reside at New Haven, when he became a frequent contributor to the periodicals. He devoted his leisure hours, for several weeks before he was graduated, to the composition of "Zamor," a tragedy, which was performed by the students at the annual commencement in the summer of 1815, and afterward printed. I have not read this, but a competent critic speaks of it as a poor imitation of Doctor YOUNG'S "Revenge," and far below any of our author's other productions. The first volume of his poems was published at New Haven, in 1820; and in the following year, at Charleston, where he had gone on account of his health, which had been impaired by too constant study, appeared the first number of "Clio." On his return to Connecticut he published the second number of "Clio," and his longest work, "Prometheus," a poem of more than three thousand lines, in the stanza of SPENSER. An edition of his select writings was published, in a large octavo volume, in New York, in 1823, and soon after reprinted in London. He had now reached the highest point in his reputation as a poet. After passing the customary period in preparatory study, PERCIVAL received the degree of Doctor of Medicine, in 1823; but his devotion to literature and the sciences prevented his engaging in the practice of his profession. In 1824, he was appointed a professor in the United States Military Academy at West Point. Ill health compelled him to relinquish this office, and he removed to Boston, where he was for a considerable time connected with the army, as a surgeon. In this period he contributed several poems to the United States Literary Gazette, a magazine published at Cambridge, in which appeared some of the earliest effusions of BRYANT, LONGFELLOW and DAWES. In 1825, he delivered a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, and in 1827, the third number of "Clio" was published in New York. The Greek revolution was still in progress, and the poet shared in the general enthusiasm which pervaded this country in behalf of the oppressed descendants of the fathers of civilization. Several of the poems embraced in that collection are appeals to the Christian nations to give to the Greeks their ancient liberty. There are in America few more learned men than PERCIVAL. He is familiar with the natural sciences, and the literature of Greece, Rome, and the oriental nations, and writes with fluency in all the modern languages of Europe. Since the publication of his last volume of poetry, he has furnished valuable aid to the wellknown philologist, Doctor WEBSTER, in the preparation of his American Dictionary of the English Language; translated MALTE-BRUN's Geography, and some other works; and edited several important publications for the booksellers. He has also been a frequent writer for the magazines. His latest productions are the beautiful Classic Melodies, in the Token for the present year. He resides at New Haven, and his attention is almost exclusively devoted to scientific pursuits.* He has all the natural qualities of a great poet, but he lacks the artistic skill, or declines the labour, without which few authors gain immortality. He has a brilliant imagination, remarkable *He was recently appointed by the Governor of Connecticut to make a geological survey of that state. command of language, and an exhaustless fountain of ideas. He writes with a facility but rarely equalled, and when his thoughts are once committed to the page, he shrinks from the labour of revising, correcting, and condensing. He remarks in one of his prefaces, that his verse is "very far from bearing the marks of the file and the burnisher," and that he likes to see "poetry in the full ebullition of feeling and fancy, foaming up with the spirit of life, and glowing with the rainbows of a glad inspiration." If by this he means that a poet should reject the slow and laborious process by which a polished excellence is attained, he errs. Nothing truly great was ever accomplished without long and patient toil. He possesses in an eminent degree the creative faculty, and his genius is versatile. He has been an admirer and a student of nature, and he describes the visible world, in its minutest details, with feeling and accuracy. The moral tendency of his writings is generally correct; but in one or two poems there is a strain of misanthropy, and in some of his earliest ones there were intimations of skepticism. His later works are free from such blemish, and I believe he no longer entertains the doubts he once cherished in regard to religion. PERCIVAL has few associates. He lives apart from society, among his books, or in the fields. One who has been admitted to his friendship remarks, that with the simplicity he unites the purity of childhood. He resides at New Haven, and is still as diligent a student as when he was an under-graduate in the college of that beautiful city. LIBERTY TO ATHENS. THE flag of Freedom floats once more It waves, as waved the palm of yore, Pours down its light around those towers, And once again the Greeks arise, As in their country's noblest hours; Their swords are girt in Virtue's cause, MINERVA's sacred hill is freeO! may she keep her equal laws, While man shall live, and time shall be. The pride of all her shrines went down; The Goth, the Frank, the Turk, had reft The laurel from her civic crown; Her helm by many a sword was cleft: She lay among her ruins low Where grew the palm, the cypress rose, And, crushed and bruised by many a blow, She cower'd beneath her savage foes; But now again she springs from earth, Her loud, awakening trumpet speaks; She rises in a brighter birth, And sounds redemption to the Greeks. It is the classic jubilee Their servile years have rolled away; The clouds that hover'd o'er them flee, They hail the dawn of Freedom's day; From heaven the golden light descends, The times of old are on the wing, And Glory there her pinion bends, And Beauty wakes a fairer spring; The hills of Greece, her rocks, her waves, Are all in triumph's pomp array'd; A light that points their tyrant's graves, Plays round each bold Athenian's blade. The Parthenon, the sacred shrine, Where Wisdom held her pure abode : The hill of Mars, where light divine Proclaimed the true but unknown God; Where Justice held unyielding sway, And trampled all corruption down, And onward took her lofty way To reach at truth's unfading crown: Where eloquence her torrents roll'd, In tones that seem'd the words of Heaven, Which made the wretch in terror shake, As by avenging furies driven : The groves and gardens, where the fire To truth, has long in worship turned: In all the light of science reign'd: The simple, but majestic pile, Where marble threw its roughness by, To glow, to frown, to weep, to smile, Where colours made the canvass live, Where music roll'd her flood along, And all the charms that art can give, Were blent with beauty, love, and song: The port, from whose capacious womb Her navies took their conquering road, The heralds of an awful doom To all who would not kiss her rod: On these a dawn of glory springs, These trophies of her brightest fame; Away the long-chain'd city flings Her weeds, her shackles, and her shame; Again her ancient souls awake, HARMODIUS bares anew his sword; Her sons in wrath their fetters break, And Freedom is their only lord. |