Tell her, the smile was not so dear, With which she made the semblance mine, As bitter is the burning tear, With which I now the gift resign.

Yet go—and could she still restore, As some exchange for taking thee. The tranquil look which first I wore, When her eyes found me calm and free;

Could she give back the careless flow, The spirit that my heart then knew— Yet, no, 'tis vain—go, picture, go— Smile at me once, and then—adieu!



FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.[1]

Blest infant of eternity! Before the day-star learned to move, In pomp of fire, along his grand career, Glancing the beamy shafts of light

From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere, Thou wert alone, oh Love! Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night, Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee. No form of beauty soothed thine eye, As through the dim expanse it wandered wide; No kindred spirit caught thy sigh, As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.

Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power, That latent in his heart was sleeping,— Oh Sympathy! that lonely hour Saw Love himself thy absence weeping.

But look, what glory through the darkness beams! Celestial airs along the water glide:— What Spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide So beautiful? oh, not of earth, But, in that glowing hour, the birth Of the young Godhead's own creative dreams. 'Tis she! Psyche, the firstborn spirit of the air. To thee, oh Love, she turns,

On thee her eyebeam burns: Blest hour, before all worlds ordained to be! They meet— The blooming god—the spirit fair Meet in communion sweet. Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine; All Nature feels the thrill divine, The veil of Chaos is withdrawn, And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn!

[1] Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and passive principles of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its first harmonizing impulse from the nuptial sympathy between these two powers. A marriage is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timaeus held Form to be the father, and Matter the mother of the World.



TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES.

Donington Park, 1802

To catch the thought, by painting's spell, Howe'er remote, howe'er refined, And o'er the kindling canvas tell The silent story of the mind;

O'er nature's form to glance the eye, And fix, by mimic light and shade, Her morning tinges ere they fly, Her evening blushes, ere they fade;

Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers, The gift, by which her art divine Above all others proudly towers,— And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.

And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace, In almost living truth exprest, This bright memorial of a face On which her eye delights to rest;

While o'er the lovely look serene, The smile of peace, the bloom of youth, The cheek, that blushes to be seen. The eye that tells the bosom's truth;

While o'er each line, so brightly true, Our eyes with lingering pleasure rove, Blessing the touch whose various hue Thus brings to mind the form we love;

We feel the magic of thy art, And own it with a zest, a zeal, A pleasure, nearer to the heart Than critic taste can ever feel.



THE FALL OF HEBE.

A DITHYRAMBIC ODE.

'Twas on a day When the immortals at their banquet lay; The bowl Sparkled with starry dew, The weeping of those myriad urns of light, Within whose orbs, the Almighty Power, At nature's dawning hour, Stored the rich fluid of ethereal soul. Around, Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight From eastern isles (Where they have bathed them in the orient ray, And with rich fragrance all their bosoms filled). In circles flew, and, melting as they flew, A liquid daybreak o'er the board distilled.

All, all was luxury! All must be luxury, where Lyaeus smiles. His locks divine Were crowned With a bright meteor-braid, Which, like an ever-springing wreath of vine, Shot into brilliant leafy shapes, And o'er his brow in lambent tendrils played: While mid the foliage hung, Like lucid grapes, A thousand clustering buds of light, Culled from the garden of the galaxy.

Upon his bosom Cytherea's head Lay lovely, as when first the Syrens sung Her beauty's dawn, And all the curtains of the deep, undrawn, Revealed her sleeping in its azure bed. The captive deity Hung lingering on her eyes and lip, With looks of ecstasy. Now, on his arm, In blushes she reposed, And, while he gazed on each bright charm, To shade his burning eyes her hand in dalliance stole.

And now she raised her rosy mouth to sip The nectared wave Lyaeus gave, And from her eyelids, half-way closed, Sent forth a melting gleam, Which fell like sun-dew in the bowl: While her bright hair, in mazy flow Of gold descending Adown her cheek's luxurious glow, Hung o'er the goblet's side, And was reflected in its crystal tide, Like a bright crocus flower, Whose sunny leaves, at evening hour With roses of Cyrene blending,[1] Hang o'er the mirror of some silvery stream.

The Olympian cup Shone in the hands Of dimpled Hebe, as she winged her feet Up The empyreal mount, To drain the soul-drops at their stellar fount;[2] And still As the resplendent rill Gushed forth into the cup with mantling heat, Her watchful care Was still to cool its liquid fire With snow-white sprinklings of that feathery air The children of the Pole respire, In those enchanted lands.[3] Where life is all a spring, and north winds never blow.

But oh! Bright Hebe, what a tear, And what a blush were thine, When, as the breath of every Grace Wafted thy feet along the studded sphere, With a bright cup for Jove himself to drink, Some star, that shone beneath thy tread, Raising its amorous head To kiss those matchless feet, Checked thy career too fleet, And all heaven's host of eyes Entranced, but fearful all, Saw thee, sweet Hebe, prostrate fall Upon the bright floor of the azure skies; Where, mid its stars, thy beauty lay, As blossom, shaken from the spray Of a spring thorn, Lies mid the liquid sparkles of the morn. Or, as in temples of the Paphian shade, The worshippers of Beauty's queen behold An image of their rosy idol, laid Upon a diamond shrine.

The wanton wind, Which had pursued the flying fair, And sported mid the tresses unconfined Of her bright hair, Now, as she fell,—oh wanton breeze! Ruffled the robe, whose graceful flow Hung o'er those limbs of unsunned snow, Purely as the Eleusinian veil Hangs o'er the Mysteries!

The brow of Juno flushed— Love blest the breeze! The Muses blushed; And every cheek was hid behind a lyre, While every eye looked laughing through the strings. But the bright cup? the nectared draught Which Jove himself was to have quaffed? Alas, alas, upturned it lay By the fallen Hebe's side; While, in slow lingering drops, the ethereal tide, As conscious of its own rich essence, ebbed away.

Who was the Spirit that remembered Man, In that blest hour, And, with a wing of love, Brushed off the goblet's scattered tears, As, trembling near the edge of heaven they ran, And sent them floating to our orb below? Essence of immortality! The shower Fell glowing through the spheres; While all around new tints of bliss, New odors and new light, Enriched its radiant flow. Now, with a liquid kiss, It stole along the thrilling wire Of Heaven's luminous Lyre, Stealing the soul of music in its flight: And now, amid the breezes bland, That whisper from the planets as they roll, The bright libation, softly fanned By all their sighs, meandering stole. They who, from Atlas' height, Beheld this rosy flame Descending through the waste of night, Thought 'twas some planet, whose empyreal frame Had kindled, as it rapidly revolved Around its fervid axle, and dissolved Into a flood so bright!

The youthful Day, Within his twilight bower, Lay sweetly sleeping On the flushed bosom of a lotos-flower;[4] When round him, in profusion weeping, Dropt the celestial shower, Steeping The rosy clouds, that curled About his infant head, Like myrrh upon the locks of Cupid shed. But, when the waking boy Waved his exhaling tresses through the sky, O morn of joy! The tide divine, All glorious with the vermil dye It drank beneath his orient eye, Distilled, in dews, upon the world, And every drop was wine, was heavenly WINE! Blest be the sod, and blest the flower On which descended first that shower, All fresh from Jove's nectareous springs;— Oh far less sweet the flower, the sod, O'er which the Spirit of the Rainbow flings The magic mantle of her solar God![5]

[1] We learn from Theopbrastus, that the roses of Cyrene were particularly fragrant.

[2] Heraclitus (Physicus) held the soul to be a spark of the stellar essence.

[3] The country of the Hyperboreans. These people were supposed to be placed so far north that the north wind could not affect them; they lived longer than any other mortals; passed their whole time in music and dancing, etc.

[4] The Egyptians represented the dawn of day by a young boy seated upon a lotos. Observing that the lotos showed its head above water at sunrise, and sank again at his setting, they conceived the idea of consecrating this flower to Osiris, or the sun.

[5] The ancients esteemed those flowers and trees the sweetest upon which the rainbow had appeared to rest; and the wood they chiefly burned in sacrifices, was that which the smile of Iris had consecrated.



RINGS AND SEALS.

"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid, "The charm is broken!—once betrayed, "Never can this wronged heart rely "On word or look, on oath or sigh. "Take back the gifts, so fondly given, "With promised faith and vows to heaven; "That little ring which, night and morn, "With wedded truth my hand hath worn; "That seal which oft, in moments blest, "Thou hast upon my lip imprest, "And sworn its sacred spring should be "A fountain sealed[1] for only thee: "Take, take them back, the gift and vow, "All sullied, lost and hateful now!"

I took the ring—the seal I took, While, oh, her every tear and look Were such as angels look and shed, When man is by the world misled. Gently I whispered, "Fanny, dear! "Not half thy lover's gifts are here: "Say, where are all the kisses given, "From morn to noon, from noon to even,— "Those signets of true love, worth more "Than Solomon's own seal of yore,— "Where are those gifts, so sweet, so many? "Come, dearest,—give back all, if any." While thus I whispered, trembling too, Lest all the nymph had sworn was true, I saw a smile relenting rise Mid the moist azure of her eyes, Like daylight o'er a sea of blue, While yet in mid-air hangs the dew She let her cheek repose on mine, She let my arms around her twine; One kiss was half allowed, and then— The ring and seal were hers again.

[1] "There are gardens, supposed to be those of King Solomon, in the neighborhood of Bethlehem. The friars show a fountain, which, they say, is the sealed fountain, to which the holy spouse in the Canticles is compared; and they pretend a tradition, that Solomon shut up these springs and put his signet upon the door, to keep them for his own drinking."—Maundrell's Travels.



TO MISS SUSAN BECKFORD.[1]

ON HER SINGING.

I more than once have heard at night A song like those thy lip hath given, And it was sung by shapes of light, Who looked and breathed, like thee, of heaven.

But this was all a dream of sleep. And I have said when morning shone:— "Why should the night-witch, Fancy, keep "These wonders for herself alone?"

I knew not then that fate had lent Such tones to one of mortal birth; I knew not then that Heaven had sent A voice, a form like thine on earth.

And yet, in all that flowery maze Through which my path of life has led, When I have heard the sweetest lays From lips of rosiest lustre shed;

When I have felt the warbled word From Beauty's lip, in sweetness vying With music's own melodious bird; When on the rose's bosom lying

Though form and song at once combined Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill, My heart hath sighed, my ear hath pined For something lovelier, softer still:—

Oh, I have found it all, at last, In thee, thou sweetest living lyre, Through which the soul of song e'er past, Or feeling breathed its sacred fire.

All that I e'er, in wildest flight Of fancy's dreams could hear or see Of music's sigh or beauty's light Is realized, at once, in thee!

[1] Afterward Duchess of Hamilton.



IMPROMPTU,

ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS.

o dulces comitum valete coetus! CATULLUS.

No, never shall my soul forget The friends I found so cordial-hearted; Dear shall be the day we met, And dear shall be the night we parted.

If fond regrets, however sweet, Must with the lapse of time decay, Yet stall, when thus in mirth you meet, Fill high to him that's far away!

Long be the light of memory found Alive within your social glass; Let that be still the magic round. O'er which Oblivion, dare not pass.



A WARNING.

TO .......

Oh, fair as heaven and chaste as light! Did nature mould thee all so bright. That thou shouldst e'er be brought to weep O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep, O'er shame extinguished, honor fled, Peace lost, heart withered, feeling dead?

No, no! a star was born with thee, Which sheds eternal purity. Thou hast, within those sainted eyes, So fair a transcript of the skies, In lines of light such heavenly lore That men should read them and adore. Yet have I known a gentle maid Whose mind and form were both arrayed In nature's purest light, like thine;— Who wore that clear, celestial sign Which seems to mark the brow that's fair For destiny's peculiar care; Whose bosom, too, like Dian's own, Was guarded by a sacred zone, Where the bright gem of virtue shone; Whose eyes had in their light a charm Against all wrong and guile and harm. Yet, hapless maid, in one sad hour These spells have lost their guardian power; The gem has been beguiled away; Her eyes have lost their chastening ray; The modest pride, the guiltless shame, The smiles that from reflection came, All, all have fled and left her mind A faded monument behind; The ruins of a once pure shrine, No longer fit for guest divine, Oh! 'twas a sight I wept to see— Heaven keep the lost one's fate from thee!



TO .......

'Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now, While yet my soul is something free; While yet those dangerous eyes allow One minute's thought to stray from thee.

Oh! thou becom'st each moment dearer; Every chance that brings me nigh thee Brings my ruin nearer, nearer,— I am lost, unless I fly thee.

Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me, Doom me not thus so soon to fall Duties, fame, and hopes await me,— But that eye would blast them all!

For, thou hast heart as false and cold As ever yet allured and swayed, And couldst, without a sigh, behold The ruin which thyself had made.

Yet,—could I think that, truly fond, That eye but once would smile on me, Even as thou art, how far beyond Fame, duty, wealth, that smile would be!

Oh! but to win it, night and day, Inglorious at thy feet reclined, I'd sigh my dreams of fame away, The world for thee forgot, resigned.

But no, 'tis o'er, and—thus we part, Never to meet again—no, never, False woman, what a mind and heart Thy treachery has undone forever.



WOMAN.

Away, away—you're all the same, A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng; And, wise too late, I burn with shame, To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove, From folly kind, from cunning loath, Too cold for bliss, too weak for love, Yet feigning all that's best in both;

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,— More joy it gives to woman's breast To make ten frigid coxcombs vain, Than one true, manly lover blest.

Away, away—your smile's a curse— Oh! blot me from the race of men, Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse, If e'er I love such things again.



TO .......

Come, take thy harp—'tis vain to muse Upon the gathering ills we see; Oh! take thy harp and let me lose All thoughts of ill in hearing thee.

Sing to me, love!—Though death were near, Thy song could make my soul forget— Nay, nay, in pity, dry that tear, All may be well, be happy yet.

Let me but see that snowy arm Once more upon the dear harp lie, And I will cease to dream of harm, Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh.

Give me that strain of mournful touch We used to love long, long ago, Before our hearts had known as much As now, alas! they bleed to know.

Sweet notes! they tell of former peace, Of all that looked so smiling then, Now vanished, lost—oh, pray thee cease, I cannot bear those sounds again.

Art thou, too, wretched? Yes, thou art; I see thy tears flow fast with mine— Come, come to this devoted heart, 'Tis breaking, but it still is thine!



A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY.

'Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met The venerable man;[1] a healthy bloom Mingled its softness with the vigorous thought That towered upon his brow; and when he spoke 'Twas language sweetened into song—such holy sounds As oft, they say, the wise and virtuous hear, Prelusive to the harmony of heaven, When death is nigh; and still, as he unclosed[2] His sacred lips, an odor, all as bland As ocean-breezes gather from the flowers That blossom in Elysium, breathed around, With silent awe we listened, while he told Of the dark veil which many an age had hung O'er Nature's form, till, long explored by man, The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous, And glimpses of that heavenly form shone through:— Of magic wonders, that were known and taught By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named) Who mused amid the mighty cataclysm, O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore; And gathering round him, in the sacred ark, The mighty secrets of that former globe, Let not the living star of science sink Beneath the waters, which ingulfed a world!— Of visions, by Calliope revealed To him,[3]who traced upon his typic lyre The diapason of man's mingled frame, And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven. With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane, Which the grave sons of Mochus, many a night, Told to the young and bright-haired visitant Of Carmel's sacred mount.—Then, in a flow Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on Through many a Maze of Garden and of Porch, Through many a system, where the scattered light Of heavenly truth lay, like a broken beam From the pure sun, which, though refracted all Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still,[4] And bright through every change!—he spoke of Him, The lone, eternal One, who dwells above, And of the soul's untraceable descent From that high fount of spirit, through the grades Of intellectual being, till it mix With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark; Nor yet even then, though sunk in earthly dross, Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still. As some bright river, which has rolled along Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold, When poured at length into the dusky deep, Disdains to take at once its briny taint, Or balmy freshness, of the scenes it left. But keeps unchanged awhile the lustrous tinge, And here the old man ceased—a winged train Of nymphs and genii bore him from our eyes. The fair illusion fled! and, as I waked, 'Twas clear that my rapt soul had roamed, the while, To that bright realm of dreams, that spirit-world, Which mortals know by its long track of light O'er midnight's sky, and call the Galaxy.[5]

[1] In Plutarch's Essay on the Decline of the Oracles, Cleombrotus, one of the interlocutors, describes an extraordinary man whom he had met with, after long research, upon the banks of the Red Sea. Once in every year this supernatural personage appeared to mortals and conversed with them; the rest of his time he passed among the Genii and the Nymphs.

[2] The celebrated Janus Dousa, a little before his death, imagined that he heard a strain of music in the air.

[3] Orpheus.—Paulinus, in his "Hebdomades, cap. 2, lib. iii, has endeavored to show, after the Platonists, that man is a diapason, or octave, made up of a diatesseron, which is his soul, and a dispente, which is his body. Those frequent allusions to music, by which the ancient philosophers illustrated their sublime theories, must have tended very much to elevate the character of the art, and to enrich it with associations of the grandest and most interesting nature.

[4] Lactantius asserts that all the truths of Christianity may be found dispersed through the ancient philosophical sects, and that any one who would collect these scattered fragments of orthodoxy might form a code in no respect differing from that of the Christian.

[5] According to Pythagoras, the people of Dreams are souls collected together in the Galaxy.



TO MRS. .......

To see thee every day that came, And find thee still each day the same; In pleasure's smile or sorrow's tear To me still ever kind and dear;— To meet thee early, leave thee late, Has been so long my bliss, my fate, That life, without this cheering ray, Which came, like sunshine, every day, And all my pain, my sorrow chased, Is now a lone, a loveless waste.

Where are the chords she used to touch? The airs, the songs she loved so much? Those songs are hushed, those chords are still, And so, perhaps, will every thrill Of feeling soon be lulled to rest, Which late I waked in Anna's breast. Yet, no—the simple notes I played From memory's tablet soon may fade; The songs, which Anna loved to hear, May vanish from her heart and ear; But friendship's voice shall ever find An echo in that gentle mind, Nor memory lose nor time impair The sympathies that tremble there.



TO LADY HEATHCOTE,

ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS.

"Tunnebridge est a la meme distance de Londres, que Fontainebleau l'est de Paris. Ce qu'il y a de beau et de galant dans l'un et dans l'autre sexe s'y rassemble au terns des eaux. La compagnie," etc. —See Memoires de Grammont, Second Part, chap. iii.

Tunbridge Wells.

When Grammont graced these happy springs, And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles, The merriest wight of all the kings That ever ruled these gay, gallant isles;

Like us, by day, they rode, they walked, At eve they did as we may do, And Grammont just like Spencer talked, And lovely Stewart smiled like you.

The only different trait is this, That woman then, if man beset her, Was rather given to saying "yes," Because,—as yet, she knew no better.

Each night they held a coterie, Where, every fear to slumber charmed, Lovers were all they ought to be, And husbands not the least alarmed.

Then called they up their school-day pranks, Nor thought it much their sense beneath To play at riddles, quips, and cranks, And lords showed wit, and ladies teeth.

As—"Why are husbands like the mint?" Because, forsooth, a husband's duty Is but to set the name and print That give a currency to beauty.

"Why is a rose in nettles hid Like a young widow, fresh and fair?" Because 'tis sighing to be rid Of weeds, that "have no business there!"

And thus they missed and thus they hit, And now they struck and now they parried; And some lay in of full grown wit. While others of a pun miscarried,

'Twas one of those facetious nights That Grammont gave this forfeit ring For breaking grave conundrumrites, Or punning ill, or—some such thing;—

From whence it can be fairly traced, Through many a branch and many a bough, From twig to twig, until it graced The snowy hand that wears it now.

All this I'll prove, and then, to you Oh Tunbridge! and your springs ironical, I swear by Heathcote's eye of blue To dedicate the important chronicle.

Long may your ancient inmates give Their mantles to your modern lodgers, And Charles's loves in Heathcote live, And Charles's bards revive in Rogers.

Let no pedantic fools be there; For ever be those fops abolished, With heads as wooden as thy ware, And, heaven knows! not half so polished.

But still receive the young, the gay. The few who know the rare delight Of reading Grammont every day, And acting Grammont every night.



THE DEVIL AMONG THE SCHOLARS,

A FRAGMENT.

* * * * *

But, whither have these gentle ones, These rosy nymphs and black-eyed nuns, With all of Cupid's wild romancing, Led by truant brains a-dancing? Instead of studying tomes scholastic, Ecclesiastic, or monastic, Off I fly, careering far In chase of Pollys, prettier far Than any of their namesakes are,— The Polymaths and Polyhistors, Polyglots and all their sisters.

So have I known a hopeful youth Sit down in quest of lore and truth, With tomes sufficient to confound him, Like Tohu Bohu, heapt around him,— Mamurra[1] stuck to Theophrastus, And Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus.[2] When lo! while all that's learned and wise Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes, And through the window of his study Beholds some damsel fair and ruddy, With eyes, as brightly turned upon him as The angel's[3] were on Hieronymus. Quick fly the folios, widely scattered, Old Homer's laureled brow is battered, And Sappho, headlong sent, flies just in The reverend eye of St. Augustin. Raptured he quits each dozing sage, Oh woman, for thy lovelier page: Sweet book!—unlike the books of art,— Whose errors are thy fairest part; In whom the dear errata column Is the best page in all the volume![4] But to begin my subject rhyme— 'Twas just about this devilish time, When scarce there happened any frolics That were not done by Diabolics, A cold and loveless son of Lucifer, Who woman scorned, nor saw the use of her, A branch of Dagon's family, (Which Dagon, whether He or She, Is a dispute that vastly better is Referred to Scaliger[5] et coeteris,) Finding that, in this cage of fools, The wisest sots adorn the schools, Took it at once his head Satanic in, To grow a great scholastic manikin,— A doctor, quite as learned and fine as Scotus John or Tom Aquinas, Lully, Hales Irrefragabilis, Or any doctor of the rabble is. In languages, the Polyglots, Compared to him, were Babelsots: He chattered more than ever Jew did;— Sanhedrim and Priest included, Priest and holy Sanhedrim Were one-and-seventy fools to him. But chief the learned demon felt a Zeal so strong for gamma, delta, That, all for Greek and learning's glory,[6] He nightly tippled "Graeco more," And never paid a bill or balance Except upon the Grecian Kalends:— From whence your scholars, when they want tick, Say, to be Attic's to be on tick. In logics, he was quite Ho Panu; Knew as much as ever man knew. He fought the combat syllogistic With so much skill and art eristic, That though you were the learned Stagyrite, At once upon the hip he had you right. In music, though he had no ears Except for that amongst the spheres, (Which most of all, as he averred it, He dearly loved, 'cause no one heard it,) Yet aptly he, at sight, could read Each tuneful diagram in Bede, And find, by Euclid's corollaria, The ratios of a jig or aria. But, as for all your warbling Delias, Orpheuses and Saint Cecilias, He owned he thought them much surpast By that redoubted Hyaloclast[7] Who still contrived by dint of throttle, Where'er he went to crack a bottle.

Likewise to show his mighty knowledge, he, On things unknown in physiology, Wrote many a chapter to divert us, (Like that great little man Albertus,) Wherein he showed the reason why, When children first are heard to cry, If boy the baby chance to be. He cries O A!—if girl, O E!— Which are, quoth he, exceeding fair hints Respecting their first sinful parents; "Oh Eve!" exclaimeth little madam, While little master cries "Oh Adam!"

But, 'twas in Optics and Dioptrics, Our daemon played his first and top tricks. He held that sunshine passes quicker Through wine than any other liquor; And though he saw no great objection To steady light and clear reflection, He thought the aberrating rays, Which play about a bumper's blaze, Were by the Doctors looked, in common, on, As a more rare and rich phenomenon. He wisely said that the sensorium Is for the eyes a great emporium, To which these noted picture-stealers Send all they can and meet with dealers. In many an optical proceeding The brain, he said, showed great good breeding; For instance, when we ogle women (A trick which Barbara tutored him in), Although the dears are apt to get in a Strange position on the retina, Yet instantly the modest brain Doth set them on their legs again!

Our doctor thus, with "stuft sufficiency" Of all omnigenous omnisciency, Began (as who would not begin That had, like him, so much within?) To let it out in books of all sorts, Folios, quartos, large and small sorts; Poems, so very deep and sensible That they were quite incomprehensible Prose, which had been at learning's Fair, And bought up all the trumpery there, The tattered rags of every vest, In which the Greeks and Romans drest, And o'er her figure swollen and antic Scattered them all with airs so frantic, That those, who saw what fits she had, Declared unhappy Prose was mad! Epics he wrote and scores of rebuses, All as neat as old Turnebus's; Eggs and altars, cyclopaedias, Grammars, prayer-books—oh! 'twere tedious, Did I but tell thee half, to follow me: Not the scribbling bard of Ptolemy, No—nor the hoary Trismegistus, (Whose writings all, thank heaven! have missed us,) E'er filled with lumber such a wareroom As this great "porcus literarum!"

[1] Mamurra, a dogmatic philosopher, who never doubted about anything, except who was his father.

[2] Bombastus was one of the names of that great scholar and quack Paracelsus. He used to fight the devil every night with a broadsword, to the no small terror of his pupil Oporinus, who has recorded the circumstance.

[3] The angel, who scolded St. Jerome for reading Cicero, as Gratian tells the story in his "concordantia discordantium Canonum," and says, that for this reason bishops were not allowed to read the Classics.

[4] The idea of the Rabbins, respecting the origin of woman, is not a little singular. They think that man was originally formed with a tail, like a monkey, but that the Deity cut off this appendage, and made woman of it.

[5] Scaliger.—Dagon was thought by others to be a certain sea-monster, who came every day out of the Red Sea to teach the Syrians husbandry.

[6] It is much to be regretted that Martin Luther, with all his talents for reforming, should yet be vulgar enough to laugh at Camerarius for writing to him in Greek, "Master Joachim (says he) has sent me some dates and some raisins, and has also written me two letters in Greek. As soon as I am recovered, I shall answer them in Turkish, that he too may have the pleasure of reading what he does not understand."

[7] Or Glass-breaker—Morhofius has given an account of this extraordinary man, in a work, published 1682.

* * * * *



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA



TO FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA.

GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER-GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE, CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC.

MY LORD,

It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lordship without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eulogium on Hercules. "Oh Hercules!" said the honest Spartan, "who ever thought of blaming Hercules?" In a similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the panegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task. I shall, therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to the very humble tribute of gratitude which I have here the honor to present.

I am, my Lord, With every feeling of attachment and respect, Your Lordship's very devoted Servant,

THOMAS MOORE.

37 Bury Street, St. James's, April 10, 1806.



PREFACE.[1]

The principal poems in the following collection were written during an absence of fourteen months from Europe. Though curiosity was certainly not the motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened that the gratification of curiosity was the only advantage which I derived from it. Finding myself in the country of a new people, whose infancy had promised so much, and whose progress to maturity has been an object of such interesting speculation, I determined to employ the short period of time, which my plan of return to Europe afforded me, in travelling through a few of the States, and acquiring some knowledge of the inhabitants.

The impression which my mind received from the character and manners of these republicans, suggested the Epistles which are written from the city of Washington and Lake Erie.[2] How far I was right in thus assuming the tone of a satirist against a people whom I viewed but as a stranger and a visitor, is a doubt which my feelings did not allow me time to investigate. All I presume to answer for is the fidelity of the picture which I have given; and though prudence might have dictated gentler language, truth, I think, would have justified severer.

I went to America with prepossessions by no means unfavorable, and indeed rather indulged in many of those illusive ideas, with respect to the purity of the government and the primitive happiness of the people, which I had early imbibed In my native country, where, unfortunately, discontent at home enhances every distant temptation, and the western world has long been looked to as a retreat from real or imaginary oppression; as, in short, the elysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their visions realized, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and repose. In all these flattering expectations I found myself completely disappointed, and felt inclined to say to America, as Horace says to his mistress, "intentata nites." Brissot, in the preface to his travels, observes, that "freedom in that country is carried to so high a degree as to border upon a state of nature;" and there certainly is a close approximation to savage life not only in the liberty which they enjoy, but in the violence of party spirit and of private animosity which results from it. This illiberal zeal imbitters all social intercourse; and, though I scarcely could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared to me the more pure and rational, yet I was sorry to observe that, in asserting their opinions, they both assume an equal share of intolerance; the Democrats consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgarity of rancor, which the Federalists too often are so forgetful of their cause as to imitate.

The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and indeed the unpolished state of society in general, would neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed to flow from that simplicity of character, that honest ignorance of the gloss of refinement which may be looked for in a new and inexperienced people. But, when we find them arrived at maturity in most of the vices, and all the pride of civilization, while they are still so far removed from its higher and better characteristics, it is impossible not to feel that this youthful decay, this crude anticipation of the natural period of corruption, must repress every sanguine hope of the future energy and greatness of America.

I am conscious that, in venturing these few remarks, I have said just enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to convince; for the limits of a preface prevent me from entering into a justification of my opinions, and I am committed on the subject as effectually as if I had written volumes in their defence. My reader, however, is apprised of the very cursory observation upon which these opinions are founded, and can easily decide for himself upon the degree of attention or confidence which they merit.

With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the following pages, I know not in what manner to apologize to the public for intruding upon their notice such a mass of unconnected trifles, such a world of epicurean atoms as I have here brought in conflict together. To say that I have been tempted by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse which can hope for but little indulgence from the critic; yet I own that, without this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for such imperfect productions: they should be shown but to the eye of friendship, in that dim light of privacy which is as favorable to poetical as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for faults, while it enhances every charm which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle occupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read such trifles, and I most sincerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them.

[1] This Preface, as well as the Dedication which precedes it, were prefixed originally to the miscellaneous volume entitled "Odes and Epistles," of which, hitherto, the poems relating to my American tour have formed a part.

[2] Epistles VI., VII., and VIII.



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA.



TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT.

Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,[1] By any spell my hand could dare To make thy disk its ample page, And write my thoughts, my wishes there; How many a friend, whose careless eye Now wanders o'er that starry sky, Should smile, upon thy orb to meet The recollection, kind and sweet, The reveries of fond regret, The promise, never to forget, And all my heart and soul would send To many a dear-loved, distant friend.

How little, when we parted last, I thought those pleasant times were past, For ever past, when brilliant joy Was all my vacant heart's employ: When, fresh from mirth to mirth again, We thought the rapid hours too few; Our only use for knowledge then To gather bliss from all we knew. Delicious days of whim and soul! When, mingling lore and laugh together, We leaned the book on Pleasure's bowl, And turned the leaf with Folly's feather. Little I thought that all were fled, That, ere that summer's bloom was shed, My eye should see the sail unfurled That wafts me to the western world.

And yet, 'twas time;—in youth's sweet days, To cool that season's glowing rays, The heart awhile, with wanton wing, May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring; But, if it wait for winter's breeze, The spring will chill, the heart will freeze. And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,— Oh! she awaked such happy dreams, And gave my soul such tempting scope For all its dearest, fondest schemes, That not Verona's child of song, When flying from the Phrygian shore, With lighter heart could bound along, Or pant to be a wanderer more!

Even now delusive hope will steal Amid the dark regrets I feel, Soothing, as yonder placid beam Pursues the murmurers of the deep, And lights them with consoling gleam, And smiles them into tranquil sleep. Oh! such a blessed night as this, I often think, if friends were near, How we should feel, and gaze with bliss Upon the moon-bright scenery here! The sea is like a silvery lake, And, o'er its calm the vessel glides Gently, as if it feared to wake The slumber of the silent tides. The only envious cloud that lowers Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,[2] Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers, And scowling at this heaven of light, Exults to see the infant storm Cling darkly round his giant form!

Now, could I range those verdant isles, Invisible, at this soft hour, And see the looks, the beaming smiles, That brighten many an orange bower; And could I lift each pious veil, And see the blushing cheek it shades,— Oh! I should have full many a tale, To tell of young Azorian maids.[3] Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps, Some lover (not too idly blest, Like those, who in their ladies' laps May cradle every wish to rest,) Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul, Those madrigals, of breath divine, Which Camoens' harp from Rapture stole And gave, all glowing warm, to thine.[4] Oh! could the lover learn from thee, And breathe them with thy graceful tone, Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy Would make the coldest nymph his own.

But, hark!—the boatswain's pipings tell 'Tis time to bid my dream farewell: Eight bells:—the middle watch is set; Good night, my Strangford!—ne'er forget That far beyond the western sea Is one whose heart remembers thee.

[1] Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the Moon by the means of a magic mirror.—See Boyle, art. Pythag.

[2] A very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the island derives its name. It is said by some to be as high as the Peak of Teneriffe.

[3] I believe it is Gutherie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores are much addicted to gallantry. This is an assertion in which even Gutherie may be credited.

[4] These islands belong to the Portuguese.



STANZAS.

A beam of tranquillity smiled in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no more; And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest. Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er.

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour, Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead; And the spirit becalmed but remembered their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.

I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh; When the saddest emotion my bosom had known, Was pity for those who were wiser than I.

I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire The pearl of the soul may be melted away; How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire We inherit from heaven, may be quenched in the clay;

And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame, That Pleasure no more might its purity dim; So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same, I might give back the boon I had borrowed from Him.

How blest was the thought! it appeared as if Heaven Had already an opening to Paradise shown; As if, passion all chastened and error forgiven, My heart then began to be purely its own.

I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more: "Oh! thus," I exclaimed, "may a heavenly eye "Shed light on the soul that was darkened before."



TO THE FLYING-FISH.[1]

When I have seen thy snow-white wing From the blue wave at evening spring, And show those scales of silvery white, So gayly to the eye of light, As if thy frame were formed to rise, And live amid the glorious skies; Oh! it has made me proudly feel, How like thy wing's impatient zeal Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent Within this world's gross element, But takes the wing that God has given, And rises into light and heaven!

But, when I see that wing, so bright, Grow languid with a moment's flight, Attempt the paths of air in vain, And sink into the waves again; Alas! the flattering pride is o'er; Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar, But erring man must blush to think, Like thee, again, the soul may sink.

Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek, Let not my spirit's flight be weak; Let me not, like this feeble thing, With brine still dropping from its wing, Just sparkle in the solar glow And plunge again to depths below; But, when I leave the grosser throng With whom my soul hath dwelt so long, Let me, in that aspiring day, Cast every lingering stain away, And, panting for thy purer air, Fly up at once and fix me there.

[1] It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circumstance which can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them. With this thought in our minds, when we first see the Flying-Fish, we could almost fancy, that we are present at the moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from the waves.



TO MISS MOORE.

FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.

In days, my Kate, when life was new, When, lulled with innocence and you, I heard, in home's beloved shade, The din the world at distance made; When, every night my weary head Sunk on its own unthorned bed, And, mild as evening's matron hour, Looks on the faintly shutting flower, A mother saw our eyelids close, And blest them into pure repose; Then, haply if a week, a day, I lingered from that home away, How long the little absence seemed! How bright the look of welcome beamed, As mute you heard, with eager smile, My tales of all that past the while!

Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea Bolls wide between that home and me; The moon may thrice be born and die, Ere even that seal can reach mine eye. Which used so oft, so quick to come, Still breathing all the breath of home,— As if, still fresh, the cordial air From lips beloved were lingering there. But now, alas,—far different fate! It comes o'er ocean, slow and late, When the dear hand that filled its fold With words of sweetness may lie cold.

But hence that gloomy thought! at last, Beloved Kate, the waves are past; I tread on earth securely now, And the green cedar's living bough Breathes more refreshment to my eyes Than could a Claude's divinest dyes. At length I touch the happy sphere To liberty and virtue dear, Where man looks up, and, proud to claim His rank within the social frame, Sees a grand system round him roll, Himself its centre, sun, and soul! Far from the shocks of Europe—far From every wild, elliptic star That, shooting with a devious fire, Kindled by heaven's avenging ire, So oft hath into chaos hurled The systems of the ancient world.

The warrior here, in arms no more Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er, And glorying in the freedom won For hearth and shrine, for sire and son, Smiles on the dusky webs that hide His sleeping sword's remembered pride. While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil, Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil, Effacing with her splendid share The drops that war had sprinkled there. Thrice happy land! where he who flies From the dark ills of other skies, From scorn, or want's unnerving woes. May shelter him in proud repose; Hope sings along the yellow sand His welcome to a patriot land: The mighty wood, with pomp, receives The stranger in its world of leaves, Which soon their barren glory yield To the warm shed and cultured field; And he, who came, of all bereft, To whom malignant fate had left Nor hope nor friends nor country dear, Finds home and friends and country here.

Such is the picture, warmly such, That Fancy long, with florid touch. Had painted to my sanguine eye Of man's new world of liberty. Oh! ask me not, if Truth have yet Her seal on Fancy's promise set; If even a glimpse my eyes behold Of that imagined age of gold;— Alas, not yet one gleaming trace![1] Never did youth, who loved a face As sketched by some fond pencil's skill, And made by fancy lovelier still, Shrink back with more of sad surprise, When the live model met his eyes, Than I have felt, in sorrow felt, To find a dream on which I've dwelt From boyhood's hour, thus fade and flee At touch of stern reality!

But, courage, yet, my wavering heart! Blame not the temple's meanest part,[2] Till thou hast traced the fabric o'er;— As yet, we have beheld no more Than just the porch to Freedom's fame; And, though a sable spot may stain The vestibule, 'tis wrong, 'tis sin To doubt the godhead reigns within! So here I pause—and now, my Kate, To you, and those dear friends, whose fate Touches more near this home-sick soul Than all the Powers from pole to pole, One word at parting,—in the tone Most sweet to you, and most my own, The simple strain I send you here, Wild though it be, would charm your ear, Did you but know the trance of thought In which my mind its numbers caught. 'Twas one of those half-waking dreams, That haunt me oft, when music seems To bear my soul in sound along, And turn its feelings all to song. I thought of home, the according lays Came full of dreams of other days; Freshly in each succeeding note I found some young remembrance float, Till following, as a clue, that strain I wandered back to home, again.

Oh! love the song, and let it oft Live on your lip, in accents soft. Say that it tells you, simply well, All I have bid its wild notes tell,— Of Memory's dream, of thoughts that yet Glow with the light of joy that's set, And all the fond heart keeps in store Of friends and scenes beheld no more. And now, adieu!—this artless air, With a few rhymes, in transcript fair, Are all the gifts I yet can boast To send you from Columbia's coast; But when the sun, with warmer smile. Shall light me to my destined isle.[3] You shall have many a cowslip-bell, Where Ariel slept, and many a shell, In which that gentle spirit drew From honey flowers the morning dew.

[1] Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world for Martha's Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio.

[2] Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavorable specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not such as can delight either the politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk they are exhibited in their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived the yellow fever had not yet disappeared, and every odor that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation.

[3] Bermuda.



A BALLAD.

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA.

"They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses."—Anon.

"La Poesie a ses monstres comme la nature." D'ALEMBERT.

"They made her a grave, too cold and damp "For a soul so warm and true; "And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,[1] "Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp, "She paddles her white canoe.

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, "And her paddle I soon shall hear; "Long and loving our life shall be, "And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, "When the footstep of death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds— His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before.

And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, "Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake, "And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface played— "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!" And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, The name of the death-cold maid.

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore; Far, far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat returned no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp This lover and maid so true Are seen at the hour of midnight damp To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp, And paddle their white canoe!

[1] The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond.



TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land Woos the bright touches of that artist hand; Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads, Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;[1] Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep, At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep; Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline, Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,[2] Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains; Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by, Turn from the canvas that creative eye, And let its splendor, like the morning ray Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

Yet, Lady, no—for song so rude as mine, Chase not the wonders of your art divine; Still, radiant eye, upon the canvas dwell; Still, magic finger, weave your potent spell; And, while I sing the animated smiles Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles, Oh, might the song awake some bright design, Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line, Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought On painting's mirror so divinely caught; While wondering Genius, as he leaned to trace The faint conception kindling into grace, Might love my numbers for the spark they threw, And bless the lay that lent a charm to you.

Say, have you ne'er, in nightly vision, strayed To those pure isles of ever-blooming shade, Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, placed For happy spirits in the Atlantic waste? There listening, while, from earth, each breeze that came Brought echoes of their own undying fame, In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song, They charmed their lapse of nightless hours along:— Nor yet in song, that mortal ear might suit, For every spirit was itself a lute, Where Virtue wakened, with elysian breeze, Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies.

Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland Floated our bark to this enchanted land,— These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown, Like studs of emerald o'er a silver zone,— Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave To blessed arbors o'er the western wave, Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime, Of bowers ethereal, and the Spirit's clime.

Bright rose the morning, every wave was still, When the first perfume of a cedar hill Sweetly awaked us, and, with smiling charms, The fairy harbor woo'd us to its arms.[3] Gently we stole, before the whispering wind, Through plaintain shades, that round, like awnings, twined And kist on either side the wanton sails, Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales; While, far reflected o'er the wave serene, Each wooded island shed so soft a green That the enamored keel, with whispering play, Through liquid herbage seemed to steal its way.

Never did weary bark more gladly glide, Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide! Along the margin, many a shining dome, White as the palace of a Lapland gnome, Brightened the wave;—in every myrtle grove Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love, Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade; And, while the foliage interposing played, Lending the scene an ever-changing grace, Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,[4] And dream of temples, till her kindling torch Lighted me back to all the glorious days Of Attic genius; and I seemed to gaze On marble, from the rich Pentelio mount, Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount.

Then thought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all The spirit race that come at poet's call, Delicate Ariel! who, in brighter hours, Lived on the perfume of these honied bowers, In velvet buds, at evening, loved to lie, And win with music every rose's sigh. Though weak the magic of my humble strain To charm your spirit from its orb again, Yet, oh, for her, beneath whose smile I sing, For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing Were dimmed or ruffled by a wintry sky. Could smooth its feather and relume its dye.) Descend a moment from your starry sphere, And, if the lime-tree grove that once was dear, The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill, The sparkling grotto can delight you still, Oh cull their choicest tints, their softest light, Weave all these spells into one dream of night, And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies, Shed the warm picture o'er her mental eyes; Take for the task her own creative spells, And brightly show what song but faintly tells.

[1] Lady Donegall, I had reason to suppose, was at this time still in Switzerland, where the well-known powers of her pencil must have been frequently awakened.

[2] The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne.

[3] Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbor of St. George's. The number of beautiful islets, the singular clearness of the water, and the animated play of the graceful little boats, gliding for ever between the islands, and seeming to sail from one cedar-grove into another, formed altogether as lovely a miniature of nature's beauties as can be imagined.

[4] This is an illusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. In the short but beautiful twilight of their spring evenings, the white cottages, scattered over the islands, and but partially seen through the trees that surround them, assume often the appearance of little Grecian temples; and a vivid fancy may embellish the poor fisherman's hut with columns such as the pencil of a Claude might imitate. I had one favorite object of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me well and warmly, but I could never turn his house into a Grecian temple again.



TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ. OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

Oh, what a sea of storm we've past!— High mountain waves and foamy showers, And battling winds whose savage blast But ill agrees with one whose hours Have past in old Anacreon's bowers, Yet think not poesy's bright charm Forsook me in this rude alarm;[1]— When close they reefed the timid sail, When, every plank complaining loud, We labored in the midnight gale; And even our haughty mainmast bowed, Even then, in that unlovely hour, The Muse still brought her soothing power, And, midst the war of waves and wind, In song's Elysium lapt my mind. Nay, when no numbers of my own Responded to her wakening tone, She opened, with her golden key, The casket where my memory lays Those gems of classic poesy, Which time has saved from ancient days. Take one of these, to Lais sung,— I wrote it while my hammock swung, As one might write a dissertation Upon "Suspended Animation!"

Sweet is your kiss, my Lais dear, But, with that kiss I feel a tear Gush from your eyelids, such as start When those who've dearly loved must part. Sadly you lean your head to mine, And mute those arms around me twine, Your hair adown my bosom spread, All glittering with the tears you shed. In vain I've kist those lids of snow, For still, like ceaseless founts they flow, Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet. Why is it thus? Do, tell me, sweet! Ah, Lais! are my bodings right? Am I to lose you? Is to-night Our last—go, false to heaven and me! Your very tears are treachery.

Such, while in air I floating hung, Such was the strain, Morgante mio! The muse and I together sung, With Boreas to make out the trio. But, bless the little fairy isle! How sweetly after all our ills. We saw the sunny morning smile Serenely o'er its fragrant hills; And felt the pure, delicious flow Of airs that round this Eden blow Freshly as even the gales that come O'er our own healthy hills at home.

Could you but view the scenery fair, That now beneath my window lies, You'd think, that nature lavished there Her purest wave, her softest skies, To make a heaven for love to sigh in, For bards to live and saints to die in. Close to my wooded bank below, In grassy calm the waters sleep, And to the sunbeam proudly show The coral rocks they love to steep.[2] The fainting breeze of morning fails; The drowsy boat moves slowly past, And I can almost touch its sails As loose they flap around the mast. The noontide sun a splendor pours That lights up all these leafy shores; While his own heaven, its clouds and beams, So pictured in the waters lie, That each small bark, in passing, seems To float along a burning sky.

Oh for the pinnace lent to thee,[3] Blest dreamer, who in vision bright, Didst sail o'er heaven's solar sea And touch at all its isles of light. Sweet Venus, what a clime he found Within thy orb's ambrosial round— There spring the breezes, rich and warm, That sigh around thy vesper car; And angels dwell, so pure of form That each appears a living star. These are the sprites, celestial queen! Thou sendest nightly to the bed Of her I love, with touch unseen Thy planet's brightening tints to shed; To lend that eye a light still clearer, To give that cheek one rose-blush more. And bid that blushing lip be dearer, Which had been all too dear before.

But, whither means the muse to roam? 'Tis time to call the wanderer home. Who could have thought the nymph would perch her Up in the clouds with Father Kircher? So, health and love to all your mansion! Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom in, The flow of heart, the soul's expansion, Mirth and song, your board illumine. At all your feasts, remember too, When cups are sparkling to the brim, That here is one who drinks to you, And, oh! as warmly drink to him.

[1] We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, during three of which we were forced to lay-to in a gale of wind. The Driver sloop of war, in which I went, was built at Bermuda of cedar, and is accounted an excellent sea-boat. She was then commanded by my very regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed aboard the Lily in an action with a French privateer. Poor Compton! he fell a victim to the strange impolicy of allowing such a miserable thing as the Lily to remain in the service: so small, crank, and unmanageable, that a well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her.

[2] The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks are seen beneath to a very great depth; and, as we entered the harbor, they appeared to us so near the surface that it seemed impossible we should not strike on them. There is no necessity, of course, for having the lead; and the negro pilot, looking down at the rocks from the bow of the ship, takes her through this difficult navigation, with a skill and confidence which seem to astonish some of the oldest sailors.

[3] In Kircher's "Ecstatic Journey to Heaven." Cosmel, the genius of the world, gives Theodidacticus a boat of asbestos, with which he embarks into the regions of the sun.



LINES WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

That sky of clouds is not the sky To light a lover to the pillow Of her he loves— The swell of yonder foaming billow Resembles not the happy sigh That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean, In this dark hour, Than when, in passion's young emotion, I've stolen, beneath the evening star, To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound In awe like this, that ne'er was given To pleasure's thrill; 'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, And the soul, listening to the sound, Lies mute and still.

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow In the cold deep, Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow No more shall wake the heart or eye, But all must sleep.

Well!—there are some, thou stormy bed, To whom thy sleep would be a treasure; Oh! most to him, Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure, Nor left one honey drop to shed Round sorrow's brim.

Yes—he can smile serene at death: Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping Of friends who love him; Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath No more shall move him.



ODES TO NEA;

WRITTEN AT BERMUDA.

[Greek: NEA turannei] EURPID. "Medea," v. 967.

Nay, tempt me not to love again, There was a time when love was sweet; Dear Nea! had I known thee then, Our souls had not been slow to meet. But, oh, this weary heart hath run, So many a time, the rounds of pain, Not even for thee, thou lovely one, Would I endure such pangs again.

If there be climes, where never yet The print of beauty's foot was set, Where man may pass his loveless nights, Unfevered by her false delights, Thither my wounded soul would fly, Where rosy cheek or radiant eye Should bring no more their bliss, or pain, Nor fetter me to earth again. Dear absent girl! whose eyes of light, Though little prized when all my own, Now float before me, soft and bright As when they first enamoring shone,— What hours and days have I seen glide, While fit, enchanted, by thy side, Unmindful of the fleeting day, I've let life's dream dissolve away. O bloom of youth profusely shed! O moments I simply, vainly sped, Yet sweetly too—or Love perfumed The flame which thus my life consumed; And brilliant was the chain of flowers, In which he led my victim-hours.

Say, Nea, say, couldst thou, like her, When warm to feel and quick to err, Of loving fond, of roving fonder, This thoughtless soul might wish to wander,— Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim, Endearing still, reproaching never, Till even this heart should burn with shame, And be thy own more fixt than ever, No, no—on earth there's only one Could bind such faithless folly fast; And sure on earth but one alone Could make such virtue false at last!

Nea, the heart which she forsook, For thee were but a worthless shrine— Go, lovely girl, that angel look Must thrill a soul more pure than mine. Oh! thou shalt be all else to me, That heart can feel or tongue can feign; I'll praise, admire, and worship thee, But must not, dare not, love again.

* * * * *

—tale iter omne cave. PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 8.

I pray you, let us roam no more Along that wild and lonely shore, Where late we thoughtless strayed; 'Twas not for us, whom heaven intends To be no more than simple friends, Such lonely walks were made.

That little Bay, where turning in From ocean's rude and angry din, As lovers steal to bliss, The billows kiss the shore, and then Flow back into the deep again, As though they did not kiss.

Remember, o'er its circling flood In what a dangerous dream we stood— The silent sea before us, Around us, all the gloom of grove, That ever lent its shade to love, No eye but heaven's o'er us!

I saw you blush, you felt me tremble, In vain would formal art dissemble All we then looked and thought; 'Twas more than tongue could dare reveal, 'Twas every thing that young hearts feel, By Love and Nature taught.

I stopped to cull, with faltering hand, A shell that, on the golden sand, Before us faintly gleamed; I trembling raised it, and when you Had kist the shell, I kist it too— How sweet, how wrong it seemed!

Oh, trust me, 'twas a place, an hour, The worst that e'er the tempter's power Could tangle me or you in; Sweet Nea, let us roam no more Along that wild and lonely shore. Such walks may be our ruin.

* * * * *

You read it in these spell-bound eyes, And there alone should love be read; You hear me say it all in sighs, And thus alone should love be said.

Then dread no more; I will not speak; Although my heart to anguish thrill, I'll spare the burning of your cheek, And look it all in silence still.

Heard you the wish I dared to name, To murmur on that luckless night, When passion broke the bonds of shame, And love grew madness in your sight?

Divinely through the graceful dance, You seemed to float in silent song, Bending to earth that sunny glance, As if to light your steps along.

Oh! how could others dare to touch That hallowed form with hand so free, When but to look was bliss too much, Too rare for all but Love and me!

With smiling eyes, that little thought, How fatal were the beams they threw, My trembling hands you lightly caught, And round me, like a spirit, flew.

Heedless of all, but you alone,— And you, at least, should not condemn. If, when such eyes before me shone, My soul forgot all eyes but them,—

I dared to whisper passion's vow,— For love had even of thought bereft me,— Nay, half-way bent to kiss that brow, But, with a bound, you blushing left me.

Forget, forget that night's offence, Forgive it, if, alas! you can; 'Twas love, 'twas passion—soul and sense— 'Twas all that's best and worst in man.

That moment, did the assembled eyes Of heaven and earth my madness view, I should have seen, thro' earth and skies, But you alone—but only you.

Did not a frown from you reprove. Myriads of eyes to me were none; Enough for me to win your love, And die upon the spot, when won.



A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY.

I just had turned the classic page. And traced that happy period over, When blest alike were youth and age, And love inspired the wisest sage, And wisdom graced the tenderest lover.

Before I laid me down to sleep Awhile I from the lattice gazed Upon that still and moonlight deep, With isles like floating gardens raised, For Ariel there his sports to keep; While, gliding 'twixt their leafy shores The lone night-fisher plied his oars.

I felt,—so strongly fancy's power Came o'er me in that witching hour,— As if the whole bright scenery there Were lighted by a Grecian sky, And I then breathed the blissful air That late had thrilled to Sappho's sigh.

Thus, waking, dreamt I,—and when Sleep Came o'er my sense, the dream went on; Nor, through her curtain dim and deep, Hath ever lovelier vision shone. I thought that, all enrapt, I strayed Through that serene, luxurious shade, Where Epicurus taught the Loves To polish virtue's native brightness,— As pearls, we're told, that fondling doves Have played with, wear a smoother whiteness.[1] 'Twas one of those delicious nights So common in the climes of Greece, When day withdraws but half its lights, And all is moonshine, balm, and peace. And thou wert there, my own beloved, And by thy side I fondly roved Through many a temple's reverend gloom, And many a bower's seductive bloom, Where Beauty learned what Wisdom taught. And sages sighed and lovers thought; Where schoolmen conned no maxims stern, But all was formed to soothe or move, To make the dullest love to learn, To make the coldest learn to love.

And now the fairy pathway seemed To lead us through enchanted ground, Where all that bard has ever dreamed Of love or luxury bloomed around. Oh! 'twas a bright, bewildering scene— Along the alley's deepening green Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers, And scented and illumed the bowers, Seemed, as to him, who darkling roves, Amid the lone Hercynian groves, Appear those countless birds of light, That sparkle in the leaves at night, And from their wings diffuse a ray Along the traveller's weary way.

'Twas light of that mysterious kind. Through which the soul perchance may roam, When it has left this world behind, And gone to seek its heavenly home. And, Nea, thou wert by my side, Through all this heavenward path my guide.

But, lo, as wandering thus we ranged That upward path, the vision changed; And now, methought, we stole along Through halls of more voluptuous glory Than ever lived in Teian song, Or wantoned in Milesian story.[2]

And nymphs were there, whose very eyes Seemed softened o'er with breath of sighs; Whose every ringlet, as it wreathed, A mute appeal to passion breathed.

Some flew, with amber cups, around, Pouring the flowery wines of Crete; And, as they passed with youthful bound, The onyx shone beneath their feet.[3] While others, waving arms of snow Entwined by snakes of burnished gold,[4] And showing charms, as loth to show, Through many a thin, Tarentian fold, Glided among the festal throng Bearing rich urns of flowers along Where roses lay, in languor breathing, And the young beegrape, round them wreathing, Hung on their blushes warm and meek, Like curls upon a rosy cheek.

Oh, Nea! why did morning break The spell that thus divinely bound me? Why did I wake? how could I wake With thee my own and heaven around me!

* * * * *

Well—peace to thy heart, though another's it be, And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me! To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves, Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves, And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet Their allurements forgive and their splendor forget.

Farewell to Bermuda,[5] and long may the bloom Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume; May spring to eternity hallow the shade, Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has strayed.

And thou—when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam Through the lime-covered alley that leads to thy home, Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done, And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun, I have led thee along, and have told by the way What my heart all the night had been burning to say— Oh! think of the past—give a sigh to those times, And a blessing for me to that alley of limes.

* * * * *

If I were yonder wave, my dear, And thou the isle it clasps around, I would not let a foot come near My land of bliss, my fairy ground.

If I were yonder couch of gold, And thou the pearl within it placed, I would not let an eye behold The sacred gem my arms embraced.

If I were yonder orange-tree, And thou the blossom blooming there, I would not yield a breath of thee To scent the most imploring air.

Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink, Give not the wave that odorous sigh, Nor let its burning mirror drink The soft reflection of thine eye.

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek, So pictured in the waters seem, That I could gladly plunge to seek Thy image in the glassy stream.

Blest fate! at once my chilly grave And nuptial bed that stream might be; I'll wed thee in its mimic wave. And die upon the shade of thee.

Behold the leafy mangrove, bending O'er the waters blue and bright, Like Nea's silky lashes, lending Shadow to her eyes of light.

Oh, my beloved! where'er I turn, Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes: In every star thy glances burn; Thy blush on every floweret lies.

Nor find I in creation aught Of bright or beautiful or rare, Sweet to the sense of pure to thought, But thou art found reflected there.

[1] This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them awhile to be played with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Cardanus.

[2] The Milesiacs, or Milesian fables, had their origin in Miletus, a luxurious town of Ionia. Aristides was the most celebrated author of these licentious fictions.

[3] It appears that in very splendid mansions the floor or pavement was frequently of onyx.

[4] Bracelets of this shape were a favorite ornament among the women of antiquity.

[5] The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. I wonder it did not occur to some of those all-reading gentlemen that, possibly, the discoverer of this "island of hogs and devils" might have been no less a personage than the great John Bermudez, who, about the same period (the beginning of the sixteenth century), was sent Patriarch of the Latin church to Ethiopia, and has left us most wonderful stories of the Amazons and the Griffins which he encountered.—Travels of the Jesuits, vol. i.



THE SNOW SPIRIT.

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep An island of lovelier charms; It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, Like Hebe in Hercules' arms. The blush of your bowers is light to the eye, And their melody balm to the ear; But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, And the Snow Spirit never comes here.

The down from his wing is as white as the pearl That shines through thy lips when they part, And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, As a murmur of thine on the heart. Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death, As he cradles the birth of the year; Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath, But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

How sweet to behold him when borne on the gale, And brightening the bosom of morn, He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil O'er the brow of each virginal thorn. Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts Is the veil of a vestal severe; No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts, Should the Snow Spirit ever come here.

But fly to his region—lay open thy zone, And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim, To think that a bosom, as white as his own, Should not melt in the daybeam like him. Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet O'er his luminous path will appear— Fly, my beloved! this island is sweet, But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

* * * * *

I stole along the flowery bank, While many a bending seagrape[1] drank The sprinkle of the feathery oar That winged me round this fairy shore.

'Twas noon; and every orange bud Hung languid o'er the crystal flood, Faint as the lids of maiden's eyes When love-thoughts in her bosom rise. Oh, for a naiad's sparry bower, To shade me in that glowing hour!

A little dove, of milky hue, Before me from a plantain flew, And, light along the water's brim, I steered my gentle bark by him; For fancy told me, Love had sent This gentle bird with kind intent To lead my steps, where I should meet— I knew not what, but something sweet.

And—bless the little pilot dove! He had indeed been sent by Love, To guide me to a scene so dear As fate allows but seldom here; One of those rare and brilliant hours. That, like the aloe's lingering flowers, May blossom to the eye of man But once in all his weary span.

Just where the margin's opening shade A vista from the waters made, My bird reposed his silver plume Upon a rich banana's bloom. Oh vision bright! oh spirit fair! What spell, what magic raised her there? 'Twas Nea! slumbering calm and mild, And bloomy as the dimpled child, Whose spirit in elysium keeps Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps.

The broad banana's green embrace Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace; One little beam alone could win The leaves to let it wander in. And, stealing over all her charms, From lip to cheek, from neck to arms, New lustre to each beauty lent,— Itself all trembling as it went!

Dark lay her eyelid's jetty fringe Upon that cheek whose roseate tinge Mixt with its shade, like evening's light Just touching on the verge of night. Her eyes, though thus in slumber hid, Seemed glowing through the ivory lid, And, as I thought, a lustre threw Upon her lip's reflecting dew,— Such as a night-lamp, left to shine Alone on some secluded shrine, May shed upon the votive wreath, Which pious hands have hung beneath.

Was ever vision half so sweet! Think, think how quick my heart-pulse beat, As o'er the rustling bank I stole;— Oh! ye, that know the lover's soul, It is for you alone to guess, That moment's trembling happiness.

[1] The seaside or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies.



A STUDY FROM THE ANTIQUE.

Behold, my love, the curious gem Within this simple ring of gold; 'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them Who lived in classic hours of old.

Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps, Upon her hand this gem displayed, Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse Should see it grace a lovelier maid.

Look, dearest, what a sweet design! The more we gaze, it charms the more; Come—closer bring that cheek to mine, And trace with me its beauties o'er.

Thou seest, it is a simple youth By some enamored nymph embraced— Look, as she leans, and say in sooth Is not that hand most fondly placed?

Upon his curled head behind It seems in careless play to lie, Yet presses gently, half inclined To bring the truant's lip more nigh.

Oh happy maid! Too happy boy! The one so fond and little loath, The other yielding slow to joy— Oh rare, indeed, but blissful both.

Imagine, love, that I am he, And just as warm as he is chilling; Imagine, too, that thou art she, But quite as coy as she is willing:

So may we try the graceful way In which their gentle arms are twined, And thus, like her, my hand I lay Upon thy wreathed locks behind:

And thus I feel thee breathing sweet, As slow to mine thy head I move; And thus our lips together meet, And thus,—and thus,—I kiss thee, love.

* * * * *

There's not a look, a word of thine, My soul hath e'er forgot; Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, Nor given thy locks one graceful twine Which I remember not.

There never yet a murmur fell From that beguiling tongue, Which did not, with a lingering spell, Upon thy charmed senses dwell, Like songs from Eden sung.

Ah! that I could, at once, forget All, all that haunts me so— And yet, thou witching girl,—and yet, To die were sweeter than to let The loved remembrance go.

No; if this slighted heart must see Its faithful pulse decay, Oh let it die, remembering thee, And, like the burnt aroma, be Consumed in sweets away.



TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

FROM BERMUDA.[1]

"The daylight is gone—but, before we depart, "One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart, "The kindest, the dearest—oh! judge by the tear "I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."

'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree, With a few, who could feel and remember like me, The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.

Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour, When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower, Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew, In blossoms of thought ever springing and new— Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair, And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there!

Last night, when we came from the Calabash-Tree, When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free, The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day Set the magical springs of my fancy in play, And oh,—such a vision as haunted me then I would slumber for ages to witness again. The many I like, and the few I adore, The friends who were dear and beloved before. But never till now so beloved and dear, At the call of my Fancy, surrounded me here; And soon,—oh, at once, did the light of their smiles To a paradise brighten this region of isles; More lucid the wave, as they looked on it, flowed, And brighter the rose, as they gathered it, glowed. Not the valleys Heraean (though watered by rills Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills.[2] Where the Song of the Shepherd, primeval and wild, Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,) Could boast such a lustre o'er land and o'er wave As the magic of love to this paradise gave.

Oh magic of love! unembellished by you, Hath the garden a blush or the landscape a hue? Or shines there a vista in nature or art, Like that which Love opes thro' the eye to the heart?

Alas, that a vision so happy should fade! That, when morning around me in brilliancy played, The rose and the stream I had thought of at night Should still be before me, unfadingly bright; While the friends, who had seemed to hang over the stream, And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream.

But look, where, all ready, in sailing array, The bark that's to carry these pages away,[3] Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind, And will soon leave these islets of Ariel behind. What billows, what gales is she fated to prove, Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love! Yet pleasant the swell of the billows would be, And the roar of those gales would be music to me. Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew, Not the sunniest tears of the summer-eve dew, Were as sweet as the storm, or as bright as the foam Of the surge, that would hurry your wanderer home.

[1] Pinkerton has said that "a good history and description of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the geographical library;" but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is but little which the historian could amplify into importance; and, with respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to cultivate are so common in the West Indies, that they have been described by every naturalist who has written any account of those islands.

[2] Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first Inventor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.

[3] A ship, ready to sail for England.



THE STEERMAN'S SONG,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE

28TH APRIL.[1]

When freshly blows the northern gale, And under courses snug we fly; Or when light breezes swell the sail, And royals proudly sweep the sky; 'Longside the wheel, unwearied still I stand, and, as my watchful eye Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, I think of her I love, and cry, Port, my boy! port.

When calms delay, or breezes blow Right from the point we wish to steer; When by the wind close-hauled we go. And strive in vain the port to near; I think 'tis thus the fates defer My bliss with one that's far away, And while remembrance springs to her, I watch the sails and sighing say, Thus, my boy! thus.

But see the wind draws kindly aft, All hands are up the yards to square, And now the floating stu'n-sails waft Our stately ship thro' waves and air. Oh! then I think that yet for me Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee— And in that hope I smiling sing, Steady, boy! so.

[1] I left Bermuda in the Boston about the middle of April, in company with the Cambrian and Leander, aboard the latter of which was the Admiral Sir Andrew Mitchell, who divides his year between Halifax and Bermuda, and is the very soul of society and good-fellowship to both. We separated in a few days, and the Boston after a short cruise proceeded to New York.



TO THE FIRE-FLY.[1]

At morning, when the earth and sky Are glowing with the light of spring, We see thee not, thou humble fly! Nor think upon thy gleaming wing.

But when the skies have lost their hue, And sunny lights no longer play, Oh then we see and bless thee too For sparkling o'er the dreary way.

Thus let me hope, when lost to me The lights that now my life illume, Some milder joys may come, like thee, To cheer, if not to warm, the gloom!

[1] The lively and varying illumination, with which these fire-flies light up the woods at night, gives quite an idea of enchantment.



TO THE LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.

FROM THE CITY OP WASHINGTON.

If former times had never left a trace Of human frailty in their onward race, Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran, One dark memorial of the crimes of man; If every age, in new unconscious prime, Rose, like a phenix, from the fires of time, To wing its way unguided and alone, The future smiling and the past unknown; Then ardent man would to himself be new, Earth at his foot and heaven within his view: Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme Of full perfection prompt his daring dream, Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore, Could tell him, fools had dreamt as much before. But, tracing as we do, through age and clime, The plans of virtue midst the deeds of crime, The thinking follies and the reasoning rage Of man, at once the idiot and the sage; When still we see, through every varying frame Of arts and polity, his course the same, And know that ancient fools but died, to make A space on earth for modern fools to take; 'Tis strange, how quickly we the past forget; That Wisdom's self should not be tutored yet, Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth Of pure perfection midst the sons of earth!

Oh! nothing but that soul which God has given, Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven; O'er dross without to shed the light within, And dream of virtue while we see but sin.

Even here, beside the proud Potowmac's stream, Might sages still pursue the flattering theme Of days to come, when man shall conquer fate, Rise o'er the level of his mortal state, Belie the monuments of frailty past, And plant perfection in this world at last! "Here," might they say, "shall power's divided reign "Evince that patriots have not bled in vain. "Here godlike liberty's herculean youth, "Cradled in peace, and nurtured up by truth "To full maturity of nerve and mind, "Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind. "Here shall religion's pure and balmy draught "In form no more from cups of state be quaft, "But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect, "Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect. "Around the columns of the public shrine "Shall growing arts their gradual wreath intwine, "Nor breathe corruption from the flowering braid, "Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade, "No longer here shall Justice bound her view, "Or wrong the many, while she rights the few; "But take her range through all the social frame, "Pure and pervading as that vital flame "Which warms at once our best and meanest part, "And thrills a hair while it expands a heart!"

Oh golden dream! what soul that loves to scan The bright disk rather than the dark of man, That owns the good, while smarting with the ill, And loves the world with all its frailty still,— What ardent bosom does not spring to meet The generous hope, with all that heavenly heat, Which makes the soul unwilling to resign The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine! Yes, dearest friend, I see thee glow to think The chain of ages yet may boast a link Of purer texture than the world has known, And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne.

But, is it thus? doth even the glorious dream Borrow from truth that dim, uncertain gleam, Which tempts us still to give such fancies scope, As shock not reason, while they nourish hope? No, no, believe me, 'tis not so—even now, While yet upon Columbia's rising brow The showy smile of young presumption plays, Her bloom is poisoned and her heart decays. Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath Burns with the taint of empires near their death; And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime, She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime,[1]

Already has the child of Gallia's school The foul Philosophy that sins by rule, With all her train of reasoning, damning arts, Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts, Like things that quicken after Nilus' flood, The venomed birth of sunshine and of mud,— Already has she poured her poison here O'er every charm that makes existence dear; Already blighted, with her blackening trace, The opening bloom of every social grace, And all those courtesies, that love to shoot Round virtue's stem, the flowerets of her fruit.

And, were these errors but the wanton tide Of young luxuriance or unchastened pride; The fervid follies and the faults of such As wrongly feel, because they feel too much; Then might experience make the fever less, Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess. But no; 'tis heartless, speculative ill, All youth's transgression with all age's chill; The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice, A slow and cold stagnation into vice.

Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man's sinking age, Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, And dies, collecting lumber in the rear,— Long has it palsied every grasping hand And greedy spirit through this bartering land; Turned life to traffic, set the demon gold So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold, And conscience, truth, and honesty are made To rise and fall, like other wares of trade.

Already in this free, this virtuous state, Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordained by fate, To show the world, what high perfection springs From rabble senators, and merchant kings,— Even here already patriots learn to steal Their private perquisites from public weal, And, guardians of the country's sacred fire, Like Afric's priests, let out the flame for hire. Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose From England's debtors to be England's foes, Who could their monarch in their purse forget, And break allegiance, but to cancel debt, Have proved at length, the mineral's tempting hue, Which makes a patriot, can un-make him too.[2] Oh! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant! Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant Of purpled madmen, were they numbered all From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, As the rank jargon of that factious race, Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words, Formed to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords, Strut forth, as patriots, from their negro-marts, And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts. Who can, with patience, for a moment see The medley mass of pride and misery, Of whips and charters, manacles and rights, Of slaving blacks and democratic whites, And all the piebald polity that reigns In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains? To think that man, thou just and gentle God! Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee, Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty; Away, away—I'd rather hold my neck By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck, In climes, where liberty has scarce been named, Nor any right but that of ruling claimed, Than thus to live, where bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves; Where—motley laws admitting no degree Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free— Alike the bondage and the license suit The brute made ruler and the man made brute.

But, while I thus, my friend, in flowerless song, So feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong, The ills, the vices of the land, where first Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst, Where treason's arm by royalty was nerved, And Frenchmen learned to crush the throne they served— Thou, calmly lulled in dreams of classic thought, By bards illumined and by sages taught, Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene, That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been. Why should I wake thee? why severely chase The lovely forms of virtue and of grace, That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread By Spartan matrons round the genial bed, Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart.