Wishing to make a continued effort, in an art which, though almost
in secret, has been adored and assiduously cultivated from earliest
infancy, it was my intention to have chosen some incident from Pagan
history, as the foundation of my contemplated poem. But, looking over
the Jewish annals, I was induced to select for my purpose, one of
their well-known stories which besides its extreme beauty, seemed to
open an extensive field for the imagination which might therein avail
itself not only of important and elevated truths but pleasing and
popular superstitions.
Having finished one Canto I left the United States for the West
Indies in the hope of being able to sail thence for Great Britain,
where I might submit what I had done to the candour of some able
writer; publish it, if thought expedient; and obtain advice and
materials for the improvement and prosecution of my work. But as
events have transpired to frustrate that intention I have endeavored
to make it as perfect, as with the means I have access to, is
possible.
It is, now, far beneath what might have been done, under the
influence of more decided hopes and more auspicious circumstances.
Yet, as it is, I am induced to place it before the public, with that
anxiety which naturally attends the doubtful accomplishment of any
favourite object, on the principle that no artist can make the same
improvement, or labour with so much pleasure to himself, in private,
as when comparing his efforts with those of others, and listening to
the opinions of critics and the remarks of connoisseurs. The beauty,
though she may view herself, in her mirror, from the ringlets of her
hair to the sole of her slipper, and appear most lovely to her own
gaze, can never be certain of her power to please until the suffrage
of society confirm the opinion formed in seclusion; and "Qu'est ce
que la beaute s'elle ne touche pas?"
Literary employments are necessary to the happiness and almost to
the vitality of those who pursue them with much ardour; and though
the votaries of the muses are, too often, debased by faults, yet,
abstractedly considered, a taste for any art, if well directed, must
seem a preservative not only against melancholy, but even against
misery and vice.
Genius, whatever its bent, supposes a refined and delicate moral
sense and though sometimes perverted by sophistry or circumstance,
and sometimes failing through weakness; can always, at least,
comprehend and feel, the grandeur of honour and the beauty of virtue.
As to the faults of those to whom the world allows the possession of
genius, there are, perhaps, good grounds for the belief that they
have actually fewer than those employed about ordinary affairs; but
the last are easily concealed and the first carefully dragged to
light.
The miseries too, sometimes attendant to persons of distinguished
literary attainments, are often held forth as a subject of "warn and
scare" but Cervantes and Camoens would both have been cast into
prison even though unable to read or write, and Savage, though a
mechanic or scrivener, would probably have possessed the same
failings and consequently have fallen into the same, or a greater
degree of poverty and suffering. Alas! how many, in the flower of
youth and strength, perish in the loathsome dungeons of this island,
and, when dead, are refused a decent grave; who, in many instances,
were their histories traced by an able pen would be wept by half the
civilized world.
Although I can boast nothing but an extreme and unquenchable love
for the art to which my humble aspirations are confined, my lyre has
been a solace when every thing else has failed; soothing when
agitated, and when at peace furnishing that exercise and excitement
without which the mind becomes sick, and all her faculties retrograde
when they ought to be advancing. Men, when they feel that nature has
kindled in their bosoms a flame which must incessantly be fed, can
cultivate eloquence and exert it, in aid of the unfortunate before
the judgment seats of their country; or endeavour to "lure to the
skies" such as enter the temples of their god; but woman, alike
subject to trials and vicissitudes and endowed with the same wishes,
(for the observation, "there is no sex to soul," is certainly not
untrue,) condemned, perhaps, to a succession of arduous though minute
duties in which, oftentimes, there is nothing to charm and little to
distract, unless she be allowed the exercise of her pen must fall
into melancholy and despair, and perish, (to use the language of Mad.
de Stael,) "consumed by her own energies."
Thus do we endeavour to excuse any inordinate or extreme attachment
by labouring to show in their highest colours the merits of its
object.
Zophiel may or may not be called entirely a creature of imagination,
as comports with the faith of the reader; he is not, however, endowed
with a single miraculous attribute; for which the general belief of
ages, even among christians, may not be produced as authority.
The stanza in which his story is told though less complicate and
beautiful than the Spencerian, is equally ancient; and favorable to a
pensive melody, is also susceptible of much variety.
The marginal notes will be useless to such as have read much.
_San Patricio, Island of Cuba, March 30, 1825._