Chapter X: Preface: 1 (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!