Raguel, fair Egla's sire, in secret vow'd
And sacrificed to the sole living God,
Where friendless shades the sacred rites enshroud;
The fiend beheld and knew ; his soul was awed,
And he bethought him of the forfeit joys
Once his in heaven;-deep in a darkling grot
He sat him down ;-the melancholy noise
Of leaf and creeping vine accordant with his thought.
When fiercer spirits howl'd, he but complain'd
Ere yet 't was his to roam the pleasant earth,
His heaven-invented harp he still retain'd
Though tuned to bliss no more; and had its birth
Of him, beneath some black infernal clift
The first drear song of wo; and torment wrung
The spirit less severe where he might lift
His plaining voice-and frame the like as now he sung:
"Wo to thee, wild ambition, I employ
Despair's dull notes thy dread effects to tell,
Born in high heaven, her peace thou couldst destroy,
And, but for thee, there had not been a hell.
"Through the celestial domes thy clarion peal'd,--
Angels, entranced, beneath thy banners ranged,
And straight were fiends;-hurl'd from the shrinking field,
They waked in agony to wail the change.
"Darting through all her veins the subtile fire
The world's fair mistress first inhaled thy breath,
To lot of higher beings learn'd to aspire,-
Dared to attempt—and doom'd the world to death.
"Thy thousand wild desires, that still torment
The fiercely struggling soul, where peace once dwelt,
But perish'd;-feverish hope-drear discontent,
Impoisoning all possest-Oh! I have felt
"As spirits feel-yet not for man we mourn
Scarce o'er the silly bird in state were he,
That builds his nest, loves, sings the morn's return,
And sleeps at evening; save by aid of thee,
"Fame ne'er had roused, nor song her records kept
The gem, the ore, the marble breathing life,
The pencil's colors,-all in earth had slept,
Now see them mark with death his victim's strife.
"Man found thee death-but death and dull decay
Baffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves ;-
By mighty works he swells his narrow day,
And reigns, for ages, on the world he loves.
"Yet what the price? with stings that never cease
Thou goad'st him on; and when, too keen the smart,
He fain would pause awhile-and sighs for peace,
Food thou wilt have, or tear his victim heart."
Thus Zophiel still," though now the infernal crew
Had gain'd by sin a privilege in the world,
Allay'd their torments in the cool night dew,
And by the dim star-light again their wings unfurl'd.”
And now, regretful of the joys his birth
Had promised; deserts, mounts and streams he crost,
To find, amid the loveliest spots of earth,
Faint likeness of the heaven he had lost.
And oft, by unsuccessful searching pain'd,
Weary he fainted through the toilsome hours;
And then his mystic nature he sustain'd
On steam of sacrifices-breath of flowers.
Sometimes he gave out oracles, amused
With mortal folly; resting on the shrines;
Or, all in some fair Sibyl's form infused,
Spoke from her quivering lips, or penn'd her mystic lines.
And now he wanders on from glade to glade
To where more precious shrubs diffuse their balms,
And gliding through the thick inwoven shade
Where the young Hebrew lay in all her charms,
He caught a glimpse. The colors in her face-
Her bare white arms-her lips-her shining hair-
Burst on his view. He would have flown the place;
Fearing some faithful angel rested there,
Who'd see him-reft of glory-lost to bliss—
Wandering and miserably panting-fain
To glean a scanty joy-with thoughts like this--
Came all he'd known and lost-he writhed with pain
Ineffable--But what assail'd his ear,
A sigh?-surprised, another glance he took;
Then doubting-fearing-gradual coming near-
He ventured to her side and dared to look;
Whispering, "yes, 't is of earth! So, new-found life
Refreshing, look'd sweet Eve, with purpose fell
When first sin's sovereign gazed on her, and strife
Had with his heart, that grieved with arts of hell,
"Stern as it was, to win her o'er to death!—
Most beautiful of all in earth, in heaven,
Oh! could I quaff for aye that fragrant breath,
Couldst thou, or being likening thee, be given
"To bloom for ever for me thus-still true
To one dear theme, my full soul flowing o'er,
Would find no room for thought of what it knew-
Nor picturing forfeit transport, curse me more.
"But oh! severest pain!-I cannot be
In what I love, blest even the little span-
(With all a spirit's keen capacity
For bliss) permitted the poor insect man.
"The few I've seen and deem'd of worth to win
Like some sweet floweret mildew'd, in my arms,
Wither'd to hideousness-foul even as sin-
Grew fearful hags; and then with potent charm
"Of mutter'd word and harmful drug, did learn
To force me to their will. Down the damp grave
Loathing, I went at Endor, and uptorn
Brought back the dead; when tortured Saul did crave,
"To view his pending fate. Fair-nay, as this Young slumberer, that dread witch; when, I array'd In lovely shape, to meet my guileful kiss
She yielded first her lip. And thou, sweet maid-
What's it I see?-a recent tear has stray'd
And left its stain upon her cheek of bliss.-
"She's fallen to sleep in grief-haply been chid,
Or by rude mortal wrong'd. So let it prove
Meet for thy purpose: 'mid these blossoms hid,
I'll gaze; and when she wakes, with all that love
"And art can lend, come forth. He who would gain
A fond full heart, in love's soft surgery skill'd,
Should seek it when 't is sore; allay its pain-
With balm by pity prest 't is all his own;- so heal'd,
"She may be mine a little year-even fair
And sweet as now-Oh respite! while possest
I lose the dismal sense of my despair-
But then-I will not think upon the rest.
"And wherefore grieve to cloud her little day
Of fleeting life?-What doom from power divine
I bear eternal! thoughts of ruth, away!
Wake pretty fly !-and-while thou mayst,--be mine.
"Though but an hour--so thou suppliest thy looms
With shining silk, and in the cruel snare
Seest the fond bird entrapp'd, but for his plumes
To work thy robes, or twine amidst thy hair."
EDWARD COATE PINKNEY,
SON of the late Hon. William Pinkney, of Baltimore, was born in London, in October, 1802, while his father was minister of the United States at the court of St James. He passed his infancy in England, and on the return of his father to this country, he was placed as a student in Baltimore College, at the age of ten or eleven. Two or three years after this, he obtained the post of midshipman in the United States navy. In this station he continued nine years, visiting in the course of his service, various parts of the globe. On the death of his father he quitted the navy, and devoted himself to the practice of the law. He died in 1828. His volume of poems was published in 1825.
KNOW 'ST thou the land which lovers ought to choose?
Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews;
In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run,
The purple vintage clusters in the sun;
Odors of flowers haunt the balmy breeze,
Rich fruits hang high upon the verdant trees;
And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves
Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless loves.
Beloved!-speed we from this sullen strand
Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand.
Look seaward thence, and nought shall meet thine eye
But fairy isles like paintings on the sky;
And, flying fast and free before the gale,
The gaudy vessel with its glancing sail;
And waters glittering in the glare of noon,
Or flecked with broken lines of crimson light
When the far fisher's fire affronts the night.
Lovely as loved! towards that smiling shore
Bear we our household gods, to fix for ever more.
It looks a dimple on the face of earth,
The seal of beauty, and the shrine of mirth;
Nature is delicate and graceful there,
The place of genius, feminine and fair;
The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud;
The air seems never to have borne a cloud,
Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curled
And solemn smokes, like altars of the world.
Thrice beautiful! to that delightful spot
Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot.
There Art, too, shows, when Nature's beauty palls,
Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls;
And there are forms in which they both conspire
To whisper themes that know not how to tire:
The speaking ruins in that gentle clime
Have but been hallowed by the hand of Time,
And each can mutely prompt some thought of flame
-The meanest stone is not without a name.
Then come, beloved!-hasten o'er the sea
To build our happy hearth in blooming Italy.
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