Читать книгу Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 2 August 1848 - Various - Страница 1

THE LATE MARIA BROOKS

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BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD

[WITH A PORTRAIT.]

This remarkable woman was not only one of the first writers of her country, but she deserves to be ranked with the most celebrated persons of her sex who have lived in any nation or age. Within the last century woman has done more than ever before in investigation, reflection and literary art. On the continent of Europe an Agnesi, a Dacier and a Chastelet have commanded respect by their learning, and a De Stael, a Dudevant and a Bremer have been admired for their genius; in Great Britain the names of More, Burney, Barbauld, Baillie, Somerville, Farrar, Hemans, Edgeworth, Austen, Landon, Norman and Barrett, are familiar in the histories of literature and science; and in our own country we turn with pride to Sedgwick, Child, Beecher, Kirkland, Parkes Smith, Fuller, and others, who in various departments have written so as to deserve as well as receive the general applause; but it may be doubted whether in the long catalogue of those whose works demonstrate and vindicate the intellectual character and position of the sex, there are many names that will shine with a clearer, steadier, and more enduring lustre than that of Maria del Occidente.

Maria Gowen, afterward Mrs. Brooks, upon whom this title was conferred originally I believe by the poet Southey, was descended from a Welsh family that settled in Charlestown, near Boston, sometime before the Revolution. A considerable portion of the liberal fortune of her grandfather was lost by the burning of that city in 1775, and he soon afterward removed to Medford, across the Mystic river, where Maria Gowen was born about the year 1795. Her father was a man of education, and among his intimate friends were several of the professors of Harvard College, whose occasional visits varied the pleasures of a rural life. From this society she derived at an early period a taste for letters and learning. Before the completion of her ninth year she had committed to memory many passages from the best poets; and her conversation excited special wonder by its elegance, variety and wisdom. She grew in beauty, too, as she grew in years, and when her father died, a bankrupt, before she had attained the age of fourteen, she was betrothed to a merchant of Boston, who undertook the completion of her education, and as soon as she quitted the school was married to her. Her early womanhood was passed in commercial affluence; but the loss of several vessels at sea in which her husband was interested was followed by other losses on land, and years were spent in comparitive indigence. In that remarkable book, "Idomen, or the Vale of Yumuri," she says, referring to this period: "Our table had been hospitable, our doors open to many; but to part with our well-garnished dwelling had now become inevitable. We retired, with one servant, to a remote house of meaner dimensions, and were sought no longer by those who had come in our wealth. I looked earnestly around me; the present was cheerless, the future dark and fearful. My parents were dead, my few relatives in distant countries, where they thought perhaps but little of my happiness. Burleigh I had never loved other than as a father and protector; but he had been the benefactor of my fallen family, and to him I owed comfort, education, and every ray of pleasure that had glanced before me in this world. But the sun of his energies was setting, and the faults which had balanced his virtues increased as his fortune declined. He might live through many years of misery, and to be devoted to him was my duty while a spark of his life endured. I strove to nerve my heart for the worst. Still there were moments when fortitude became faint with endurance, and visions of happiness that might have been mine came smiling to my imagination. I wept and prayed in agony."

In this period poetry was resorted to for amusement and consolation. At nineteen she wrote a metrical romance, in seven cantos, but it was never published. It was followed by many shorter lyrical pieces which were printed anonymously; and in 1820, after favorable judgments of it had been expressed by some literary friends, she gave to the public a small volume entitled "Judith, Esther, and other Poems, by a Lover of the Fine Arts." It contained many fine passages, and gave promise of the powers of which the maturity is illustrated by "Zophiël," very much in the style of which is this stanza:

With even step, in mourning garb arrayed,

Fair Judith walked, and grandeur marked her air;

Though humble dust, in pious sprinklings laid.

Soiled the dark tresses of her copious hair.


And this picture of a boy:

Softly supine his rosy limbs reposed,

His locks curled high, leaving the forehead bare:

And o'er his eyes the light lids gently closed,

As they had feared to hide the brilliance there.


And this description of the preparations of Esther to appear before Ahasuerus:

"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 rolled.


Refreshed 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-colored light.


Graceful she entered the forbidden court,

Her bosom throbbing with her purpose high;

Slow were her steps, and unassured 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.


Among the shorter poems are several that are marked by fancy and feeling, and a graceful versification, of one of which, an elegy, these are the opening verses:

Lone in the desert, drear and deep,

Beneath the forest's whispering shade,

Where brambles twine and mosses creep,

The lovely Charlotte's grave is made.


But though no breathing marble there

Shall gleam in beauty through the gloom,

The turf that hides her golden hair

With sweetest desert flowers shall bloom.


And while the moon her tender light

Upon the hallowed scene shall fling,

The mocking-bird shall sit all night

Among the dewy leaves, and sing.


In 1823 Mr. Brooks died, and a paternal uncle soon after invited the poetess to the Island of Cuba, where, two years afterward, she completed the first canto of "Zophiël, or the Bride of Seven," which was published in Boston in 1825. The second canto was finished in Cuba in the opening of 1827; the third, fourth and fifth in 1828; and the sixth in the beginning of 1829. The relative of Mrs. Brooks was now dead, and he had left to her his coffee plantation and other property, which afforded her a liberal income. She returned again to the United States, and resided more than a year in the vicinity of Dartmouth College, where her son was pursuing his studies; and in the autumn of 1830, she went to Paris, where she passed the following winter. The curious and learned notes to "Zophiël," were written in various places, some in Cuba, some in Hanover, some in Canada, (which she visited during her residence at Hanover,) some at Paris, and the rest at Keswick, in England, the home of Robert Southey, where she passed the spring of 1831. When she quitted the hospitable home of this much honored and much attached friend, she left with him the completed work, which he subsequently saw through the press, correcting the proof sheets himself, previous to its appearance in London in 1833.

The materials of this poem are universal; that is, such as may be appropriated by every polished nation. In all the most beautiful oriental systems of religion, including our own, may be found such beings as its characters. The early fathers of Christianity not only believed in them, but wrote cumbrous folios upon their nature and attributes. It is a curious fact that they never doubted the existence and the power of the Grecian and Roman gods, but supposed them to be fallen angels, who had caused themselves to be worshiped under particular forms, and for particular characteristics. To what an extent, and to how very late a period this belief has prevailed, may be learned from a remarkable little work of Fontenelle,1 in which that pleasing writer endeavors seriously to disprove that any preternatural power was evinced in the responses of the ancient oracles. The Christian belief in good and evil angels is too beautiful to be laid aside. Their actual and present existence can be disproved neither by analogy, philosophy, or theology, nor can it be questioned without casting a doubt also upon the whole system of our religion. This religion, by many a fanciful skeptic, has been called barren and gloomy; but setting aside all the legends of the Jews, and confining ourselves entirely to the generally received Scriptures, there will be found sufficient food for an imagination warm as that of Homer, Apelles, Phidias, or Praxiteles. It is astonishing that such rich materials for poetry should for so many centuries have been so little regarded, appropriated, or even perceived.

The story of Zophiël, though accompanied by many notes, is simple and easily followed. Reduced to prose, and a child, or a common novel reader, would peruse it with satisfaction. It is in six cantos, and is supposed to occupy the time of nine months: from the blooming of roses at Ecbatana to the coming in of spices at Babylon. Of this time the greater part is supposed to elapse between the second and third canto, where Zophiël thus speaks to Egla of Phraërion:

Yet still she bloomed – uninjured, innocent —

Though now for seven sweet moons by Zophiël watched and wooed.

The king of Medea, introduced in the second canto, is an ideal personage; but the history of that country, near the time of the second captivity, is very confused, and more than one young prince resembling Sardius, might have reigned and died without a record. So much of the main story however as relates to human life is based upon sacred or profane history; and we have sufficient authority for the legend of an angel's passion for one of the fair daughters of our own world. It was a custom in the early ages to style heroes, to raise to the rank of demigods, men who were distinguished for great abilities, qualities or actions. Above such men the angels who are supposed to have visited the earth were but one grade exalted, and they were capable of participating in human pains and pleasures. Zophiël is described as one of those who fell with Lucifer, not from ambition or turbulence, but from friendship and excessive admiration of the chief disturber of the tranquillity of heaven: as he declares, when thwarted by his betrayer, in the fourth canto:

Though the first seraph formed, how could I tell

The ways of guile? What marvels I believed

When cold ambition mimicked love so well

That half the sons of heaven looked on deceived!


During the whole interview in which this stanza occurs, the deceiver of men and angels exhibits his alledged power of inflicting pain. He says to Zophiël, after arresting his course:

"Sublime Intelligence,

Once chosen for my friend and worthy me:

Not so wouldst thou have labored to be hence,

Had my emprise been crowned with victory.

When I was bright in heaven, thy seraph eyes

Sought only mine. But he who every power

Beside, while hope allured him, could despise,

Changed and forsook me, in misfortune's hour."


To which Zophiël replies:

"Changed, and forsook thee? this from thee to me?

Once noble spirit! Oh! had not too much

My o'er fond heart adored thy fallacy,

I had not, now, been here to bear thy keen reproach;

Forsook thee in misfortune? at thy side

I closer fought as peril thickened 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-born,

And owned as many lives as leaves there be,

From all Hyrcania by his tempest torn

I had lost, one by one, and given the last for thee.

Oh! had thy plighted pact of faith been kept,

Still unaccomplished were the curse of sin;

'Mid all the woes thy ruined followers wept,

Had friendship lingered, hell could not have been."


Phraërion, another fallen angel, but of a nature gentler than that of Zophiël, is thus introduced:

Harmless Phraërion, formed to dwell on high,

Retained 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;

No soul-creative in this being born,

Its restless, daring, fond aspirings hid:

Within the vortex of rebellion drawn,

He joined 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 formed no plans for happiness: content

To curl the tendril, fold the bud; his pain

So light, he scarcely felt his banishment.

Zophiël, perchance, had held him in disdain;

But, formed for friendship, from his o'erfraught soul

'Twas 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.

Zophiël 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.


Such are the principal preter-human characters in the poem. Egla, the heroine, is a Hebress of perfect beauty, who lives with her parents not far from the city of Ecbatana, and has been saved, by stratagem, from a general massacre of captives, under a former king of Medea. Being brought before the reigning monarch to answer for the supposed murder of Meles, she exclaims,

Sad from my birth, nay, born upon that day

When perished all my race, my infant ears

Were opened first with groans; and the first ray

I saw, came dimly through my mother's tears.


Zophiël is described throughout the poem as burning with the admiration of virtue, yet frequently betrayed into crime by the pursuit of pleasure. Straying accidentally to the grove of Egla, he is struck with her beauty, and finds consolation in her presence. He appears, however, at an unfortunate moment, for the fair Judean has just yielded to the entreaties of her mother and assented to proposals offered by Meles, a noble of the country; but Zophiël causes his rival to expire suddenly on entering the bridal apartment, and his previous life at Babylon, as revealed in the fifth canto, shows that he was not undeserving of his doom. Despite her extreme sensibility, Egla is highly endowed with "conscience and caution;" and she regards the advances of Zophiël with distrust and apprehension. Meles being missed, she is brought to court to answer for his murder. Her sole fear is for her parents, who are the only Hebrews in the kingdom, and are suffered to live but through the clemency of Sardius, a young prince who has lately come to the throne, and who, like many oriental monarchs, reserves to himself the privilege of decreeing death. The king is convinced of her innocence, and, struck with her extraordinary beauty and character, resolves suddenly to make her his queen. We know of nothing in its way finer than the description which follows, of her introduction, in the simple costume of her country, to a gorgeous banqueting hall in which he sits with his assembled chiefs:

With unassured yet graceful step advancing,

The light vermilion of her cheek more warm

For doubtful modesty; while all were glancing

Over the strange attire that well became such form

To lend her space the admiring band gave way;

The sandals on her silvery feet were blue;

Of saffron tint her robe, as when young day

Spreads softly o'er the heavens, and tints the trembling dew.

Light was that robe as mist; and not a gem

Or ornament impedes its wavy fold,

Long and profuse; save that, above its hem,

'Twas broidered with pomegranate-wreath, in gold.

And, by a silken cincture, broad and blue,

In shapely guise about the waste confined,

Blent with the curls that, of a lighter hue,

Half floated, waving in their length behind;

The other half, in braided tresses twined,

Was decked with rose of pearls, and sapphires azure too,

Arranged with curious skill to imitate

The sweet acacia's blossoms; just as live

And droop those tender flowers in natural state;

And so the trembling gems seemed sensitive,

And pendent, sometimes touch her neck; and there

Seemed shrinking from its softness as alive.

And round her arms, flour-white and round and fair,

Slight bandelets were twined of colors five,

Like little rainbows seemly on those arms;

None of that court had seen the like before,

Soft, fragrant, bright – so much like heaven her charms,

It scarce could seem idolatry to adore.

He who beheld her hand forgot her face;

Yet in that face was all beside forgot;

And he who, as she went, beheld her pace,

And locks profuse, had said, "nay, turn thee not."


Idaspes, the Medean vizier, or prime minister, has reflected on the maiden's story, and is alarmed for the safety of his youthful sovereign, who consents to some delay and experiment, but will not be dissuaded from his design until five inmates of his palace have fallen dead in the captive's apartment. The last of these is Altheëtor, a favorite of the king, (whose Greek name is intended to express his qualities,) and the circumstances of his death, and the consequent grief of Egla and despair of Zophiël, are painted with a beauty, power and passion scarcely surpassed.

Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet,

Entered 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 thrilled the gilded roof along;

His warm, devoted soul no terror knows,

And truth and love lend fervor 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? – he draws his harmless breath!"


Still lives Altheëtor; 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 thrilled each separate nerve,

Himself could not have told – all wound and clasped

In her white arms and hair. Ah! can they serve

To save him? "What a sea of sweets!" he gasped,

But 'twas delight: sound, fragrance, all were breathing.

Still swelled the transport: "Let me look and thank:"

He sighed (celestial smiles his lips enwreathing,)

"I die – but ask no more," he said, and sank;

Still by her arms supported – lower – lower —

As by soft sleep oppressed; so calm, so fair,

He rested on the purple tapestried floor,

It seemed an angel lay reposing there.


And Zophiël exclaims,

"He died of love, or the o'er-perfect joy

Of being pitied – prayed for – pressed 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.


Beloved and admired at first, Egla becomes an object of hatred and fear; for Zophiël being invisible to others her story is discredited, and she is suspected of murdering by some baleful art all who have died in her presence. She is, however, sent safely to her home, and lives, as usual, in retirement with her parents. The visits of Zophiël are now unimpeded. He instructs the young Jewess in music and poetry; his admiration and affection grow with the hours; and he exerts his immortal energies to preserve her from the least pain or sorrow, but selfishly confines her as much as possible to solitude, and permits for her only such amusements as he himself can minister. Her confidence in him increases, and in her gentle society he almost forgets his fall and banishment.

But the difference in their natures causes him continual anxiety; knowing her mortality, he is always in fear that death or sudden blight will deprive him of her; and he consults with Phraërion on the best means of saving her from the perils of human existence. One evening,

Round Phraërion, nearer drawn,

One beauteous arm he flung: "First to my love!

We'll see her safe; then to our task till dawn."

Well pleased, Phraërion answered that embrace;

All balmy he with thousand breathing sweets,

From thousand dewy flowers. "But to what place,"

He said, "will Zophièl go? who danger greets

As if 'twere peace. The palace of the gnome,

Tahathyam, for our purpose most were meet;

But then, the wave, so cold and fierce, the gloom,

The whirlpools, rocks, that guard that deep retreat!

Yet there are fountains, which no sunny ray

E'er danced upon, and drops come there at last,

Which, for whole ages, filtering all the way,

Through all the veins of earth, in winding maze have past.

These take from mortal beauty every stain,

And smooth the unseemly lines of age and pain,

With every wondrous efficacy rife;

Nay, once a spirit whispered of a draught,

Of which a drop, by any mortal quaffed,

Would save, for terms of years, his feeble, flickering life."


Tahathyam is the son of a fallen angel, and lives concealed in the bosom of the earth, guarding in his possession a vase of the elixir of life, bequeathed to him by a father whom he is not permitted to see. The visit of Zophiël and Phraërion to this beautiful but unhappy creature will remind the reader of the splendid creations of Dante.

The soft flower-spirit shuddered, looked on high,

And from his bolder brother would have fled;

But then the anger kindling in that eye

He could not bear. So to fair Egla's bed

Followed and looked; then shuddering all with dread,

To wondrous realms, unknown to men, he led;

Continuing long in sunset course his flight,

Until for flowery Sicily he bent;

Then, where Italia smiled upon the night,

Between their nearest shores chose midway his descent.

The sea was calm, and the reflected moon

Still trembled on its surface; not a breath

Curled the broad mirror. Night had passed her noon;

How soft the air! how cold the depths beneath!

The spirits hover o'er that surface smooth,

Zophiël's white arm around Phraërion's twined,

In fond caresses, his tender cares to soothe,

While either's nearer wing the other's crossed behind.

Well pleased, Phraërion half forgot his dread,

And first, with foot as white as lotus leaf,

The sleepy surface of the waves essayed;

But then his smile of love gave place to drops of grief.

How could he for that fluid, dense and chill,

Change the sweet floods of air they floated on?

E'en at the touch his shrinking fibres thrill;

But ardent Zophiël, panting, hurries on,

And (catching his mild brother's tears, with lip

That whispered courage 'twixt each glowing kiss,)

Persuades to plunge: limbs, wings, and locks they dip;

Whate'er the other's pains, the lover felt but bliss.

Quickly he draws Phraërion on, his toil

Even lighter than he hoped: some power benign

Seems to restrain the surges, while they boil

'Mid crags and caverns, as of his design

Respectful. That black, bitter element,

As if obedient to his wish, gave way;

So, comforting Phraërion, on he went,

And a high, craggy arch they reach at dawn of day,

Upon the upper world; and forced them through

That arch, the thick, cold floods, with such a roar,

That the bold sprite receded, and would view

The cave before he ventured to explore.

Then, fearful lest his frighted guide might part

And not be missed amid such strife and din,

He strained him closer to his burning heart,

And, trusting to his strength, rushed fiercely in.


On, on, for many a weary mile they fare;

Till thinner grew the floods, long, dark and dense,

From nearness to earth's core; and now, a glare

Of grateful light relieved their piercing sense;

As when, above, the sun his genial streams

Of warmth and light darts mingling with the waves,

Whole fathoms down; while, amorous of his beams,

Each scaly, monstrous thing leaps from its slimy caves.

And now, Phraërion, with a tender cry,

Far sweeter than the land-bird's note, afar

Heard through the azure arches of the sky,

By the long-baffled, storm-worn mariner:

"Hold, Zophiël! rest thee now – our task is done,

Tahathyam's realms alone can give this light!

O! though it is not the life-awakening sun,

How sweet to see it break upon such fearful night!"


Clear grew the wave, and thin; a substance white,

The wide-expanding cavern floors and flanks;

Could one have looked from high how fair the sight!

Like these, the dolphin, on Bahaman banks,

Cleaves the warm fluid, in his rainbow tints,

While even his shadow on the sands below

Is seen; as through the wave he glides, and glints,

Where lies the polished shell, and branching corals grow.

No massive gate impedes; the wave, in vain,

Might strive against the air to break or fall;

And, at the portal of that strange domain,

A clear, bright curtain seemed, or crystal wall.

The spirits pass its bounds, but would not far

Tread its slant pavement, like unbidden guest;

The while, on either side, a bower of spar

Gave invitation for a moment's rest.

And, deep in either bower, a little throne

Looked so fantastic, it were hard to know

If busy nature fashioned it alone,

Or found some curious artist here below.


Soon spoke Phraërion: "Come, Tahathyam, come,

Thou know'st me well! I saw thee once to love;

And bring a guest to view thy sparkling dome

Who comes full fraught with tidings from above."

Those gentle tones, angelically clear,

Past from his lips, in mazy depths retreating,

(As if that bower had been the cavern's ear,)

Full many a stadia far; and kept repeating,

As through the perforated rock they pass,

Echo to echo guiding them; their tone

(As just from the sweet spirit's lip) at last

Tahathyam heard: where, on a glittering throne he solitary sat.


Sending through the rock an answering strain, to give the spirits welcome, the gnome prepares to meet them at his palace-door:

He sat upon a car, (and the large pearl,

Once cradled in it, glimmered now without,)

Bound midway on two serpents' backs, that curl

In silent swiftness as he glides about.

A shell, 'twas first in liquid amber wet,

Then ere the fragrant cement hardened round,

All o'er with large and precious stones 'twas set

By skillful Tsavaven, or made or found.

The reins seemed pliant crystal (but their strength

Had matched his earthly mother's silken band)

And, flecked with rubies, flowed in ample length,

Like sparkles o'er Tahathyam's beauteous hand.

The reptiles, in their fearful beauty, drew,

As if from love, like steeds of Araby;

Like blood of lady's lip their scarlet hue;

Their scales so bright and sleek, 'twas pleasure but to see,

With open mouths, as proud to show the bit,

They raise their heads, and arch their necks – (with eye

As bright as if with meteor fire 'twere lit;)

And dart their barbed tongues, 'twixt fangs of ivory.

These, when the quick advancing sprites they saw

Furl their swift wings, and tread with angel grace

The smooth, fair pavement, checked their speed in awe,

And glided far aside as if to give them space.


The errand of the angels is made known to the sovereign of this interior and resplendent world, and upon conditions the precious elixir is promised; but first Zophiël and Phraërion are ushered through sparry portals to a banquet.

High towered the palace and its massive pile,

Made dubious if of nature or of art,

So wild and so uncouth; yet, all the while,

Shaped to strange grace in every varying part.

And groves adorned it, green in hue, and bright,

As icicles about a laurel-tree;

And danced about their twigs a wonderous light;

Whence came that light so far beneath the sea?

Zophiël looked up to know, and to his view

The vault scarce seemed less vast than that of day;

No rocky roof was seen; a tender blue

Appeared, as of the sky, and clouds about it play:

And, in the midst, an orb looked as 'twere meant

To shame the sun, it mimicked him so well.

But ah! no quickening, grateful warmth it sent;

Cold as the rock beneath, the paly radiance fell.

Within, from thousand lamps the lustre strays.

Reflected back from gems about the wall;

And from twelve dolphin shapes a fountain plays,

Just in the centre of a spacious hall;

But whether in the sunbeam formed to sport,

These shapes once lived in supleness and pride,

And then, to decorate this wonderous court,

Were stolen from the waves and petrified;

Or, moulded by some imitative gnome,

And scaled all o'er with gems, they were but stone,

Casting their showers and rainbows 'neath the dome.

To man or angel's eye might not be known.

No snowy fleece in these sad realms was found,

Nor silken ball by maiden loved so well;

But ranged in lightest garniture around,

In seemly folds, a shining tapestry fell.

And fibres of asbestos, bleached in fire,

And all with pearls and sparkling gems o'erflecked,

Of that strange court composed the rich attire,

And such the cold, fair form of sad Tahathyam decked.


Gifted with every pleasing endowment, in possession of an elixir of which a drop perpetuates life and youth, surrounded by friends of his own choice, who are all anxious to please and amuse him, the gnome feels himself inferior in happiness to the lowest of mortals. His sphere is confined, his high powers useless, for he is without the "last, best gift of God to man," and there is no object on which he can exercise his benevolence. The feast is described with the terse beauty which marks all the canto, and at its close —

The banquet-cups, of many a hue and shape,

Bossed o'er with gems, were beautiful to view;

But, for the madness of the vaunted grape,

Their only draught was a pure limpid dew,

The spirits while they sat in social guise,

Pledging each goblet with an answering kiss,

Marked many a gnome conceal his bursting sighs;

And thought death happier than a life like this.

But they had music; at one ample side

Of the vast arena of that sparkling hall,

Fringed round with gems, that all the rest outvied.

In form of canopy, was seen to fall

The stony tapestry, over what, at first,

An altar to some deity appeared;

But it had cost full many a year to adjust

The limpid crystal tubes that 'neath upreared

Their different lucid lengths; and so complete

Their wondrous 'rangement, that a tuneful gnome

Drew from them sounds more varied, clear, and sweet,

Than ever yet had rung in any earthly dome.

Loud, shrilly, liquid, soft; at that quick touch

Such modulation wooed his angel ears

That Zophiël wondered, started from his couch

And thought upon the music of the spheres.


But Zophiël lingers with ill-dissembled impatience and Tahathyam leads the way to where the elixir of life is to be surrendered.

Soon through the rock they wind; the draught divine

Was hidden by a veil the king alone might lift.

Cephroniel's son, with half-averted face

And faltering hand, that curtain drew, and showed,

Of solid diamond formed, a lucid vase;

And warm within the pure elixir glowed;

Bright red, like flame and blood, (could they so meet,)

Ascending, sparkling, dancing, whirling, ever

In quick perpetual movement; and of heat

So high, the rock was warm beneath their feet,

(Yet heat in its intenseness hurtful never,)

Even to the entrance of the long arcade

Which led to that deep shrine, in the rock's breast

As far as if the half-angel were afraid

To know the secret he himself possessed.

Tahathyam filled a slip of spar, with dread,

As if stood by and frowned some power divine;

Then trembling, as he turned to Zophiël, said,

"But for one service shall thou call it thine:

Bring me a wife; as I have named the way;

(I will not risk destruction save for love!)

Fair-haired and beauteous like my mother; say —

Plight me this pact; so shalt thou bear above,

For thine own purpose, what has here been kept

Since bloomed the second age, to angels dear.

Bursting from earth's dark womb, the fierce wave swept

Off every form that lived and loved, while here,

Deep hidden here, I still lived on and wept."


Great pains have evidently been taken to have every thing throughout the work in keeping. Most of the names have been selected for their particular meaning. Tahathyam and his retinue appear to have been settled in their submarine dominion before the great deluge that changed the face of the earth, as is intimated in the lines last quoted; and as the accounts of that judgment, and of the visits and communications of angels connected with it, are chiefly in Hebrew, they have names from that language. It would have been better perhaps not to have called the persons of the third canto "gnomes," as at this word one is reminded of all the varieties of the Rosicrucian system, of which Pope has so well availed himself in the Rape of the Lock, which sprightly production has been said to be derived, though remotely, from Jewish legends of fallen angels. Tahathyam can be called gnome only on account of the retreat to which his erring father has consigned him.

The spirits leave the cavern, and Zophiël exults a moment, as if restored to perfect happiness. But there is no way of bearing his prize to the earth except through the most dangerous depths of the sea.

Zophiël, with toil severe,

But bliss in view, through the thrice murky night,

Sped swiftly on. A treasure now more dear

He had to guard, than boldest hope had dared

To breathe for years; but rougher grew the way;

And soft Phraërion, shrinking back and scared

At every whirling depth, wept for his flowers and day.

Shivered, and pained, and shrieking, as the waves

Wildly impel them 'gainst the jutting rocks;

Not all the care and strength of Zophiël saves

His tender guide from half the wildering shocks

He bore. The calm, which favored their descent,

And bade them look upon their task as o'er,

Was past; and now the inmost earth seemed rent

With such fierce storms as never raged before.

Of a long mortal life had the whole pain

Essenced in one consummate pang, been borne,

Known, and survived, its still would be in vain

To try to paint the pains felt by these sprites forlorn.

The precious drop closed in its hollow spar,

Between his lips Zophiël in triumph bore.

Now, earth and sea seem shaken! Dashed afar

He feels it part; – 'tis dropt; – the waters roar,

He sees it in a sable vortex whirling,

Formed by a cavern vast, that 'neath the sea,

Sucks the fierce torrent in.


The furious storm has been raised by the power of his betrayer and persecutor, and in gloomy desperation Zophiël rises with the frail Phraërion to the upper air:

Black clouds, in mass deform,

Were frowning; yet a moment's calm was there,

As it had stopped to breathe awhile the storm.

Their white feet pressed the desert sod; they shook

From their bright locks the briny drops; nor stayed

Zophiël on ills, present or past, to look.


But his flight toward Medea is stayed by a renewal of the tempest —

Loud and more loud the blast; in mingled gyre,

Flew leaves and stones; and with a deafening crash

Fell the uprooted trees; heaven seemed on fire —

Not, as 'tis wont, with intermitting flash,

But, like an ocean all of liquid flame,

The whole broad arch gave one continuous glare,

While through the red light from their prowling came

The frighted beasts, and ran, but could not find a lair.


At length comes a shock, as if the earth crashed against some other planet, and they are thrown amazed and prostrate upon the heath. Zophiël,

Too fierce for fear, uprose; yet ere for flight in a mood

Served his torn wings, a form before him stood

In gloomy majesty. Like starless night,

A sable mantle fell in cloudy fold

From its stupendous breast; and as it trod

The pale and lurid light at distance rolled

Before its princely feet, receding on the sod.


The interview between the bland spirit and the prime cause of his guilt is full of the energy of passion, and the rhetoric of the conversation has a masculine beauty of which Mrs. Brooks alone of all the poets of her sex is capable.

Zophiël returns to Medea and the drama draws to a close, which is painted with consummate art. Egla wanders alone at twilight in the shadowy vistas of a grove, wondering and sighing at the continued absence of the enamored angel, who approaches unseen while she sings a strain that he had taught her.

His wings were folded o'er his eyes; severe

As was the pain he'd borne from wave and wind,

The dubious warning of that being drear,

Who met him in the lightning, to his mind

Was torture worse; a dark presentiment

Came o'er his soul with paralyzing chill,

As when Fate vaguely whispers her intent

To poison mortal joy with sense of coming ill.

He searched about the grove with all the care

Of trembling jealousy, as if to trace

By track or wounded flower some rival there;

And scarcely dared to look upon the face

Of her he loved, lest it some tale might tell

To make the only hope that soothed him vain:

He hears her notes in numbers die and swell,

But almost fears to listen to the strain

Himself had taught her, lest some hated name

Had been with that dear gentle air enwreathed.

While he was far; she sighed – he nearer came,

Oh, transport! Zophiël was the name she breathed.


He saw her – but

Paused, ere he would advance, for very bliss.

The joy of a whole mortal life he felt

In that one moment. Now, too long unseen,

He fain had shown his beauteous form, and knelt

But while he still delayed, a mortal rushed between.


This scene is in the sixth canto. In the fifth, which is occupied almost entirely by mortals, and bears a closer relation than the others to the chief works in narrative and dramatic poetry, are related the adventures of Zameia, which, with the story of her death, following the last extract, would make a fine tragedy. Her misfortunes are simply told by an aged attendant who had fled with her in pursuit of Meles, whom she had seen and loved in Babylon. At the feast of Venus Mylitta,

Full in the midst, and taller than the rest,

Zameia stood distinct, and not a sigh

Disturbed the gem that sparkled on her breast;

Her oval cheek was heightened to a dye

That shamed the mellow vermeil of the wreath

Which in her jetty locks became her well,

And mingled fragrance with her sweeter breath,

The while her haughty lips more beautifully swell

With consciousness of every charm's excess;

While with becoming scorn she turned her face

From every eye that darted its caress,

As if some god alone might hope for her embrace.


Again she is discovered, sleeping, by the rocky margin of a river:

Pallid and worn, but beautiful and young,

Though marked her charms by wildest passion's trace;

Her long round arms, over a fragment flung,

From pillow all too rude protect a face,

Whose dark and high arched brows gave to the thought

To deem what radiance once they towered above;

But all its proudly beauteous outline taught

That anger there had shared the throne of love.


It was Zameia that rushed between Zophiël and Egla, and that now with quivering lip, disordered hair, and eye gleaming with frenzy, seized her arm, reproached her with the murder of Meles, and attempted to kill her. But as her dagger touches the white robe of the maiden her arm is arrested by some unseen power, and she falls dead at Egla's feet. Reproached by her own handmaid and by the aged attendant of the princess, Egla feels all the horrors of despair, and, beset with evil influences, she seeks to end her own life, but is prevented by the timely appearance of Raphael, in the character of a traveler's guide, leading Helon, a young man of her own nation and kindred who has been living unknown at Babylon, protected by the same angel, and destined to be her husband; and to the mere idea of whose existence, imparted to her in a mysterious and vague manner by Raphael, she has remained faithful from her childhood.

Zophiël, who by the power of Lucifer has been detained struggling in the grove, is suffered once more to enter the presence of the object of his affection. He sees her supported in the arms of Helon, whom he makes one futile effort to destroy, and then is banished forever. The emissaries of his immortal enemy pursue the baffled seraph to his place of exile, and by their derision endeavor to augment his misery,

And when they fled he hid him in a cave

Strewn with the bones of some sad wretch who there,

Apart from men, had sought a desert grave,

And yielded to the demon of despair.

There beauteous Zophiël, shrinking from the day,

Envying the wretch that so his life had ended,

Wailed his eternity;


But, at last, is visited by Raphael, who gives him hopes of restoration to his original rank in heaven.

The concluding canto is entitled "The Bridal of Helon," and in the following lines it contains much of the author's philosophy of life:

The bard has sung, God never formed a soul

Without its own peculiar mate, to meet

Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole

Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete!

But thousand evil things there are that hate

To look on happiness; these hurt, impede,

And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate,

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, unquaffed,

Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and despairing

Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught.


On consulting "Zophiël," it will readily be seen that the passages here extracted have not been chosen for their superior poetical merit. It has simply been attempted by quotations and a running commentary to convey a just impression of the scope and character of the work. There is not perhaps in the English language a poem containing a greater variety of thought, description and incident, and though the author did not possess in an eminent degree the constructive faculty, there are few narratives that are conducted with more regard to unities, or with more simplicity and perspicuity.

Though characterized by force and even freedom of expression, it does not contain an impure or irreligious sentiment. Every page is full of passion, but passion subdued and chastened by refinement and delicacy. Several of the characters are original and splendid creations. Zophiël seems to us the finest fallen angel that has come from the hand of a poet. Milton's outcasts from heaven are utterly depraved and abraded of their glory; but Zophiël has traces of his original virtue and beauty, and a lingering hope of restoration to the presence of the Divinity. Deceived by the specious fallacies of an immortal like himself, and his superior in rank, he encounters the blackest perfidy in him for whom so much had been forfeited, and the blight of every prospect that had lured his fancy or ambition. Egla, though one of the most important characters in the poem, is much less interesting. She is represented as heroically consistent, except when given over for a moment to the malice of infernal emissaries. In her immediate reception of Helon as a husband, she is constant to a long cherished idea, and fulfills the design of her guardian spirit, or it would excite some wonder that Zophiël was worsted in such competition. It will be perceived upon a careful examination that the work is in admirable keeping, and that the entire conduct of its several persons bears a just relation to their characters and position.

Mrs. Brooks returned to the United States, and her son being now a student in the military academy, she took up her residence in the vicinity of West Point, where, with occasional intermissions in which she visited her plantation in Cuba or traveled in the United States, she remained until 1839. Her marked individuality, the variety, beauty and occasional splendor of her conversation, made her house a favorite resort of the officers of the academy, and of the most accomplished persons who frequented that romantic neighborhood, by many of whom she will long be remembered with mingled affection and admiration.

In 1834 she caused to be published in Boston an edition of "Zophiël," for the benefit of the Polish exiles who were thronging to this country after their then recent struggle for freedom. There were at that time too few readers among us of sufficiently cultivated and independent taste to appreciate a work of art which time or accident had not commended to the popular applause, and "Zophiël" scarcely anywhere excited any interest or attracted any attention. At the end of a month but about twenty copies had been sold, and, in a moment of disappointment, Mrs. Brooks caused the remainder of the impression to be withdrawn from the market. The poem has therefore been little read in this country, and even the title of it would have remained unknown to the common reader of elegant literature but for occasional allusions to it by Southey and other foreign critics. 2

In the summer of 1843, while Mrs. Brooks was residing at Fort Columbus, in the bay of New York, – a military post at which her son, Captain Horace Brooks, was stationed several years – she had printed for private circulation the remarkable little work to which allusion has already been made, entitled "Idomen, or the Vale of the Yumuri." It is in the style of a romance, but contains little that is fictitious except the names of the characters. The account which Idomen gives of her own history is literally true, except in relation to an excursion to Niagara, which occurred in a different period of the author's life. It is impossible to read these interesting "confessions" without feeling a profound interest in the character which they illustrate; a character of singular strength, dignity and delicacy, subjected to the severest tests, and exposed to the most curious and easy analysis. "To see the inmost soul of one who bore all the impulse and torture of self-murder without perishing, is what can seldom be done: very few have memories strong enough to retain a distinct impression of past suffering, and few, though possessed of such memories, have the power of so describing their sensations as to make them apparent to another." "Idomen" will possess an interest and value as a psychological study, independent of that which belongs to it as a record of the experience of so eminent a poet.

Mrs. Brooks was anxious to have published an edition of all her writings, including "Idomen," before leaving New York, and she authorized me to offer gratuitously her copyrights to an eminent publishing house for that purpose. In the existing condition of the copyright laws, which should have been entitled acts for the discouragement of a native literature, she was not surprised that the offer was declined, though indignant that the reason assigned should have been that they were "of too elevated a character to sell." Writing to me soon afterward she observed, "I do not think any thing from my humble imagination can be 'too elevated,' or elevated enough, for the public as it really is in these North American States… In the words of poor Spurzheim, (uttered to me a short time before his death, in Boston,) I solace myself by saying, 'Stupidity! stupidity! the knowledge of that alone has saved me from misanthropy.'"

In December, 1843, Mrs. Brooks sailed the last time from her native country for the Island of Cuba. There, on her coffee estate, Hermita, she renewed for a while her literary labors. The small stone building, smoothly plastered, with a flight of steps leading to its entrance, in which she wrote some of the cantos of "Zophiël," is described by a recent traveler 3 as surrounded by alleys of "palms, cocoas, and oranges, interspersed with the tamarind, the pomegranate, the mangoe, and the rose-apple, with a back ground of coffee and plantains covering every portion of the soil with their luxuriant verdure. I have often passed it," he observes, "in the still night, when the moon was shining brightly, and the leaves of the cocoa and palm threw fringe-like shadows on the walls and the floor, and the elfin lamps of the cocullos swept through the windows and door, casting their lurid, mysterious light on every object, while the air was laden with mingled perfume from the coffee and orange, and the tube-rose and night-blooming ceres, and have thought that no fitter birth-place could be found for the images she has created."

Her habits of composition were peculiar. With an almost unconquerable aversion to the use of the pen, especially in her later years, it was her custom to finish her shorter pieces, and entire cantos of longer poems, before committing a word of them to paper. She had long meditated, and had partly composed, an epic under the title of "Beatriz, the Beloved of Columbus," and when transmitting to me the MS. of "The Departed," in August, 1844, she remarked: "When I have written out my 'Vistas del Infierno' and one other short poem, I hope to begin the penning of the epic I have so often spoken to you of; but when or whether it will ever be finished, Heaven alone can tell." I have not learned whether this poem was written, but when I heard her repeat passages of it, I thought it would be a nobler work than "Zophiël."

Mrs. Brooks died at Patricio, in Cuba, near the close of December, 1844.

I have no room for particular criticism of her minor poems. They will soon I trust be given to the public in a suitable edition, when it will be discovered that they are heart-voices, distinguished for the same fearlessness of thought and expression which is illustrated by the work which has been considered in this brief reviewal.

The accompanying portrait is from a picture by Mr. Alexander, of Boston, and though the engraver has very well preserved the details and general effect of the painting, it does little justice to the fine intellectual expression of the subject. It was a fancy of Mr. Southey's that induced her to wear in her hair the passion-flower, which that poet deemed the fittest emblem of her nature.

1

Historie des Oracles.

2

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 extraordinary performance. —London Quarterly Review.

3

The author of "Notes on Cuba." Boston, 1844.

Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 2 August 1848

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