Analysis of Zophiel. (Invocation)



Thou with the dark blue eye upturned to heaven,
    And cheek now pale, now warm with radiant glow,
                        Daughter of God,--most dear,--
                        Come with thy quivering tear,
    And tresses wild, and robes of loosened flow,--
    To thy lone votaress let one look be given!

Come Poesy! nor like some just-formed maid,
    With heart as yet unswoln by bliss or woe;--
                        But of such age be seen
                        As Egypt's glowing queen,
    When her brave Roman learned to love her so
    That death and loss of fame, were, by a smile, repaid.

Or as thy Sappho, when too fierce assailed
    By stern ingratitude her tender breast:--
                        Her love by scorn repaid
                        Her friendship true betrayed,
    Sick of the guileful earth, she sank for rest
    In the cold waves embrace; while Grecian muse bewailed.

Be to my mortal eye, like some fair dame--
    Ripe, but untouched by time; whose frequent blush
                        Plays o'er her cheek of truth
                        As soft as earliest youth;
    While thoughts exalted to her mild eye rush--
    And the expanded soul, tells 'twas from heaven it came.

Daughter of life's first cause; who, when he saw
    The ills that unborn innocents must bear,
                        When doomed to come to earth--
                        Bethought--and gave thee birth
    To charm the poison from affliction there;
    And from his source eternal, bade thee draw.

He gave thee power, inferior to his own
    But in control o'er matter. 'Mid the crash
                        Of earthquake, war, and storm,
                        Is seen thy radiant form
    Thou com'st at midnight on the lightning's flash,
    And ope'st to those thou lov'st new scenes and worlds unknown.

And still, as wild barbarians fiercely break
    The graceful column and the marble dome--
                        Where arts too long have lain
                        Debased at pleasure's fain,
    And bleeding justice called on wrath to come,
    'Mid ruins heaped around, thou bidst thy votarists wake.

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. [FN#1]

[FN#1]    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.

Or on some beetling cliff--where the mad waves
    Rush echoing thro' the high-arched caves below,
                        I view some love-reft fair
                        Whose sighing warms the air,
    Gaze anxious on the ocean as it raves
    And call on thee-alone, of power to sooth her woe.

Friend of the wretched; smoother of the couch
    Of pining hope; thy pitying form I know!
                        Where thro' the wakeful night,
                        By a dim taper's light,
    Lies a pale youth, upon his pallet low,
    Whose wan and woe-worn charms rekindle at thy touch.

Friendless--oppressed by fate--the restless fires
    Of his thralled soul prey on his beauteous frame--
                        Till, strengthened by thine aid,
                        He shapes some kindred maid,
    Pours forth in song the life consuming flame,
    And for awhile forgets his sufferings and desires.

Scorner of thoughtless grandeur, thou hast chose
    Thy best-beloved from ruddy Nature's breast:
                        The grotto dark and rude--
                        The forest solitude--
    The craggy mount by blushing clouds carest--
    Have altars where thy light etherial glows. [FN#2]

[FN#2]    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 most 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
             The god within them, and rejoined the stars
             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 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.

Thy sovereign priest by earth's vile sons was driven
    To make the cold unconscious earth his bed: [FN#3]
                        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
    On thy warm bosom his unpillowed head;
                        Bade him for visions live
                        More bright than worlds can give;
    O'er his pale lips thy soul infusive shed
    That left his dust adored where kings decay untraced.

[FN#3]    "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--
    Creative power,--'tis thou hast peopled heaven
                        Since man from dust arose
                        His birth the cherub owes [FN#4]
    To thee--by thee his rapturous harp was given
    And white wings tipp'd with gold that cool the domes above.

[FN#4]    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 revolted in heaven, "Les Parsis ignicoles, qui subsistent encore ont communique a 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 Raphael ni Gabriel que les Perses n'adopterent que long-tems apres. Ces mots sont Chaldeens; ils ne furent connus des Juifs que dans leur captivite."

Husher of secret sighs--from childhood's hour
    The slave of Fate, I've knelt before thy throne;
                        To thy loved courts have sped
                        Whene'er my heart has bled,
    And every ray of bliss that heart has known
    Has reached it thro' thy grief-dispelling power.

Fain thro' my native solitudes I'd roam
    Bathe my rude harp in my bright native streams
                        Twine it with flowers that bloom
                        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. [FN#5]

[FN#5]    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--
    A pensive wanderer on life's thorny heath
                        Earth's pageants for my view
                        Have nought: I love but few,
    And few who chance to hear thy trembling breath,
    My lyre, for her who wakes thee, have a sigh. [FN#6]

[FN#6]    It may not be improper to observe that these stanzas were composed during a period of misfortune and dejection.

Forsake me not! none ever loved thee more!
    Fair queen, I'll meet woe's fearfulest frown--and smile;
                        If mid the scene severe
                        Thou'lt drop on me one tear,
    And let thy flitting form sometimes beguile
    The present of its ills--I'll scorn them and adore.

Then warm the form relentless fate would chill--
    Dark lours my night--Oh! give me one embrace!
                        If every pain I bear
                        Befit me for thy care,
    Come sorrow--scorn--desertion--I can chase
    Despair, fell watching for her victim still.


Scheme Text too long
Poetic Form
Metre 1101111110 01111111001 101111 1111001 0101011101 1111111110 11111111 111111111 111111 110101 1011011101 110111010101 111111101 1110101 011101 010101 110111111 00110111011 1111011111 1101111101 1100111 1111001 1101010111 0001011111011 1011111111 0111110011 111111 10111 1101010101 0111010111 111100100111 10011010101 11101 1111001 111111011 011111110101 01110100101 0101000101 111111 01111 0101011111 11010111111 111110101 11111010111 110011 111101 11010101001 11010011111011 11100111011000101000110110111010001010111010011 111111011 11001011101 111111 110101 1101010111 0111011101101 1101010101 11011100111 11011 10111 1011011101 110111010111 1011101010 111111111 110111 111101 1101010101 01010111000010 111001111 1101110101 01101 01010 010111011 110111111 11100101011111110010111001110111011110011101011000101010110011010101011110011100100100111001001010101101101101001100101010110101110010011001110011001011101111010010110110001001011001 1011011101 101000101 1111011111 111101011 0101100101 1011 00111110110101001100100100101110101101111010101100111101101000110011100100 1010100101100111101010111110101110100010011011110110101110100110101000100111 11011110101001000110000101010110011011001111001001110110111101101 11011111110 1101101111 011111 11111 1111010111 1111011101110 1111010101 11110111 111101 111111 101111111 11110111011 11101101110111010110110101001011101101101010010001011100001111100101010110111011010100010 1111010101 010101111010 111101 1101011 111111001110 011111110101 1101001110111100101010010101001000101011010101010100100000100110100110110010010111111101001110101110111111011011111111111101110011101111111111111111111 111011110 0111110111 111111 11111 01001111111 11111101010 11110111 1111011101 1111011 110101 1101010111 1001111101011 111010101101010101011001001011101011010100110 1111011111 01010011101 110111 111111 01111111001 11101111011 1111110101011110001100100101001 0111110111 111111101 110101 111111 0111010101 010111111001 1101010111 1111111101 1100111 011111 1101010111 0111010101
Closest metre Iambic heptameter
Characters 9,497
Words 1,419
Sentences 43
Stanzas 30
Stanza Lengths 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 1, 6, 6, 6, 6, 1, 6, 1, 1, 1, 6, 6, 1, 6, 1, 6, 6, 1, 6, 1, 6, 6
Lines Amount 135
Letters per line (avg) 48
Words per line (avg) 11
Letters per stanza (avg) 217
Words per stanza (avg) 47
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Submitted by halel on July 15, 2020

Modified on March 05, 2023

7:15 min read
15

Maria Gowen Brooks

Maria Gowen Brooks was an American poet. She impressed Edgar Allan Poe and the English Poet Laureate, Robert Southey, who promoted her best-known poem Zophiël. more…

All Maria Gowen Brooks poems | Maria Gowen Brooks Books

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