"When the roses wither and the bower loses its sweetness, you have no longer the tale of the nightingale."
Indeed the rose, in Oriental poetry, is seldom mentioned without her paramour the nightingale, which gives reason to suppose that this bird, in those countries where it was first celebrated, had really some natural fondness for the rose; or perhaps for some insect which took shelter in it. In Sir W. Jones' translation of the Persian fable, of "The Gardener and Nightingale" we meet with the following distich.
_"I know not what the rose says under his lips, that he brings back the helpless Nightingales with their mournful notes.
One day the Gardener, according to his established custom, went to view the roses; he saw a plaintive nightingale rubbing his head on the leaves of the roses and tearing asunder, with his sharp bill, that volume adorned with gold."_
And Gelaleddin Ruzbehar,
_"While the nightingale sings thy praises with a loud voice, I am all ear like the stalk of the rosetree."_
Pliny, however, in his delightful description of this bird, says nothing, I believe, about the rose.
(7) Les Perses semblent etre les premiers hommes connus de nous qui parlerent des anges comme d'huissiers celestes, et de porteurs d'ordres.
_Voltaire, Essai sur les moeurs et l'esprit des nations._
In composing this ode, which was done four years ago, the writer had not the most remote idea, of complimenting any one. Without the slightest pretensions to "connoiseurship" she has only described the absolute effect of the pictures alluded to, on an individual, and would only be considered in the light of an insent warming itself in the sun, and grateful for his pervasive influence.
ODE.
Thou who wert born of Psyche and of Love And fondly nurst on Poesy's warm breast Painting, oh, power adored!
My country's sons have poured To thee their orisons; and thou hast blest Their votive sighs, nor vainly have they strove.
Thou who art wont to soothe the varied pain That ceaseless throbs at absent lover's heart, Who first bestowed thine aid On the young Rhodian maid [FN#19]
When doomed, from him whose love was life, to part, From a lone bard accept an humble heartfelt strain.
[FN#19] I do not positively recollect whether the incident, here described is supposed to have transpired at Rhodes, Corinth, or some other place, and have not, at present, the means for ascertaining.
Painting is called the Rhodian Art, but I know not if on account of its having been first invented there or for the eminence of the painters which Rhodes produced; which was so great that an illustrious enemy refrained from burning the city, which he had in his power, out of respect to the genius of Protogenes one of its most celebrated artists.
'Twas the last night the idol youth might stay-- E'en now, to bear him from the rosy isle, [FN#20]
The galley waits: he sleeps She silent wakes and weeps-- Watches his lips that in light dreaming smile-- Twines her soul round his charms and dreads the coming day.
The dazzling drops her pitious eyes that blind Hushing her struggling sobs she wiped away:-- Her tapers paly light Fell on the marble white, Beside the couch where half reclined he lay And of his beauteous face the shadow well defined.
Loved deity, then first thou cam'st on earth!-- Pity for truth in sorrow, called thee here!
Sudden the fair, inspired, With a new thought was fired Her hand urged on by hope--yet, breathing not for fear-- She traced the unreal shade--'twas hers--an art had birth.
[FN#20] Rhodes, in the Greek tongue, signifies _rose_ or roses.
After being made the scene of the loves of Venus and Apollo, the isle (says Demoustier) became an enchanting garden, and soon took the name of the flowers it produced.
By dearest, tenderest feelings still allured, Thou sought'st our wilds far blooming o'er the deep Pleased with the soft employ A fair haired cherub boy O'er a more helpless child his watch to keep Was placed; and from his sports the long restraint endured.
Fair as the hues of heaven, the innocent Lay like a phantom born of some mild soul; A drop, for it had wept A moment ere it slept, O'er its light vermil cheek was seen to roll And its young guardian's heart drank beauty as he leant.
That nameless wish to nought but genius known.-- Indefinite--but in each fibre felt, Whispered. The boy elate Burned to perpetuate The full pervasive bliss; enrapt he knelt-- Thou saw'st--a pencil's by--and infant West's thine own.
Soon the plumed savage, from his leafy home Emerging, saw and loved the gifted child, And soon, beneath their care, His hands the tints prepare, That strain their shapely limbs, in grandeur wild As thro' their arching woods, the desert warriors roam. [FN#21]
[FN#21] Sir Benjamin West, when a child, was presented with the primitive colours by an Indian. See Galt's Life of West.
Please he repaid their plans, nor those alone; Sped by his strength the painted arrow flew; And oft the soaring bird For shape, or hue preferred, To make a model for his art he knew While sovereign Nature saw--and smiled upon her throne.
Bold Science, who earth's caverned depths explores, And soars triumphant 'mid new worlds of light,-- Lays bare the heaving heart [FN#22]
Nor suffers life to part-- Lures the red lightning from its stormy height-- Oft, goddess kneels to thee to save his precious stores.
[FN#22] An operation was performed at Paris by M. Richerande in which the heart of a patient, who afterwards recovered, was laid bare.
The rough-browed warrior on the midnight deck While stealing softness thro' his pulses glides, By the moon's pensive rays Regards with lengthened gaze, The pictured form his scarry bosom hides By day; that tho' death grasp, hangs smiling at his neck.
When fate has torn from the fond mother's arms The tender hope her bosom fed, to thee She flies;--and ere decay Can mar his beauteous prey Her arching eyes, amid their grief, can see, Still dawning bright, to them, its early-blighted charms.
The generous youth who, fired by love of fame, A victim at her bloody altars fell; To the beloved ones reft, By aid of thee, has left His form, his lip, his ardent glance, to tell How fair was he on earth who left it for a name.
The patriot--here a moment let my strain Tremble before thy Stuart--who but he Could bid mild Washington-- His god-loved labours done-- Thus sit before us breathing majesty, And, in his deep blue eye, still life and soul retain?
Methinks, the while I gaze, each graceful line So light imprinted on his forehead fair, Where Wisdom sits serene Of every sense the queen, Seems as an embryo empire still were there, While still his ample breast swells with the vast design.
And fondly o'er the mellow tints I pause Of her, whose vivid touch shames not her sire; Bold Genius in his pride Has marked her as his bride, On his bright pinions bids her soul aspire, Nor pay the tribute due by tardier Nature's laws. [FN#23]
[FN#23] While composing this ode the writer was shown a beautiful specimen from the hand of a young daughter of the celebrated Stuart, who entirely devoted herself to the art.
But guard thee well young J--e: in his embrace How many seal with death their ectasy!
Too deep, intense, and wild, For one so late a child, I fear me lest the proffered transport be That every earthlier joy absorbent would efface.