Methinks I see thee on the broken shrine Of some fall'n temple-where the grass waves high With many a flowret wild; While some lone, pensive, child Looks on the sculpture with a wondering eye Whose kindling fires betray that he is chosen thine.* Or on some beetling cliff-where the mad waves Whose sighing warms the air, Gaze anxious on the ocean as it raves And call on the e-alone, of power to soothe her woe. Friend of the wretched; smoother of the couch By a dim taper's light, Lies a pale youth, upon his pallet low, Whose wan and woe-worn charms rekindle at thy touch. *Genius, perhaps, has often, nay generally, been awakened and the whole future bent of the mind thus strongly operated upon, determined, by some circumstance trivial as this. Friendless-oppressed by fate-the restless fires He shapes some kindred maid, Pours forth in song the life consuming flame, Scorner of thoughtless grandeur, thou hast chose The forest solitude The craggy mount by blushing clouds carest- *Every nation, however rude, has, as it has been justly observed, a taste for poetry. This art after all that has and can be said for and against it, is the language of nature, and among the relics of the most polished and learned nations little has survived except such as simply depicts those natural feelings and images which have ever existed and ever must continue. Most of the great poets have been individuals of humble condition rising from the mass of the people by that natural principle which causes the more etherial particles to rise and the denser to sink to the earth. But, as Byron exquisitely says, in one of the most wonderfully beautiful pages he ever composed, "Many are poets who have never penned Their inspirations, and, perchance, the best; They felt, they loved, and died; but would not lend Their thoughts to meaner beings; they comprest Unlaurel'd upon earth." In the place where I now write amid several hundred Africans of different ages, and nations, the most debased of any on the face of Thy sovereign priest by earth's vile sons was driven To make the cold unconscious earth his bed:* The damp cave mocked his sighs But from his sightless eyes, Wrung forth by wrongs, the anguished drops he shed, Fell each as an appeal to summon thee from heaven. Thou sought'st him in his desolation; placed More bright than worlds can give; O'er his pale lips thy soul infusive shed That left his dust adored where kings decay untraced. the earth, I have been enabled to observe, even in this, last link of the chain of humanity, the strong natural love for music and poetry. Any little incident which occurs on the estate where they toil, and which the greater part of them are never suffered to leave, is immediately made the subject of a rude song which they, in their broken Spanish, sing to their companions; and thereby relieve a little the monotony of their lives. I have observed these poor creatures, under various circumstances, and though, generally, extremely brutal, have, in some instances, heard touches of sentiment from them, when under the influence of grief, equal to any which have flowed from the pen of Rousseau. *“On the banks of the Meles was shown the spot where Critheis, the mother of Homer, brought him into the world, and the cavern to which he retired to compose his immortal verses. A monument erected to his memory and inscribed with his name stood in the middle of the city--it was adorned with spacious porticos under which the citizens assembled." Source of deep feeling-of surpassing love- His birth the cherub owes* To thee-by thee his rapturous harp was given a above. Husher of secret sighs-from childhood's hour Whene'er my heart has bled, And every ray of bliss that heart has known Fain thro' my native solitudes I'd roam Bathe my rude harp in my bright native streams 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.t *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 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- Have nought: I love but few, And few who chance to hear thy trembling breath, Forsake me not! none ever loved thee more! Thou❜lt drop on me one tear, And let thy flitting form sometimes beguile Then warm the form relentless fate would chill- Befit me for thy care, Come sorrow--scorn--desertion-I can chase revolted in heaven, "Les Parsis ignicoles, qui subsistent encore ont communiqué à 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 Raphaël ni Gabriel que les Perses n'adopterent que long-tems apres. Ces mots sont Chaldeens; ils ne furent connus des Juifs que dans leur captivité." * It may not be improper to observe that these stanzas were composed during a period of misfortune and dejection. |