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A mother saw our eyelids close,
And bless'd them into pure repose ;
Then, haply if a week, a day,
I linger'd from that home away,
How long the little absence seem'd !
How bright the look of welcome beam'd,
As mute you heard, with eager smile,
My tales of all that pass'd the while !

WAEN I have seen thy snow-white wing
From the blue wave at evening spring,
And show those scales of silvery white,
So gaily to the eye of light,
As if thy frame were form’d 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.

Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea Rolls wide between that home and me; The moon may thrice be born and die, Ere ev'n 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 belov'd were lingering there. But now, alas, — far different fate !

comes o'er ocean, slow and late, When the dear hand that fill'd its fold With words of sweetness may lie cold.

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.

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 hurld The systems of the ancient world.




In days, my Kate, when life was new,
When, lull'd 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,

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 remember'd 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.

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

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 cultur'd field;
And he, who came, of all bereft,
To whom malignant fate had left
Nor home nor friends nor country dear,
Finds home and friends and country here.

The simple strain I send you here, 3
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 wander'd back to home again.

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 ev’n a glimpse my eyes behold
Of that imagin’d age of gold ; –
Alas, not yet one gleaming trace !!
Never did youth, who lov'd a face
As sketch'd 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 boy hood's hour, thus fade and flee
At touch of stern reality!

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 destin'd isle, +
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.




But, courage, yet, my wavering heart !
Blame not the temple's meanest part, 2
Till thou hast trac'd the fabric o'er :-
As yet, we have beheld no more
Than just the porch to Freedom's fane ;
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.

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 fre. quently 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 Poésie a ses monstres comme la nature." - D'ALEYBERT.

“ They made her a grave, too cold and damp

“ For a soul so warm and true;

I Such romantic works as “ The American Farmer's Let- 2 Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavourable ters," and the account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom had de- general are not such as can delight either the politician or serted the rest of the world for Martha's Vineyard and the the moralist, and at Norfolk they are exhibited in their least banks of the Ohio. The French travellers, too, almost all attractive form. At the time when we arrived the yellow from revolutionary motives, have contributed their share to fever had not yet disappeared, and every odour that assailed the diffusion of this flattering misconception. A visit to the us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation. country is, however, quite sufficient to correct even the most 3 A trifling attempt at musical composition accompanied enthusiastic prepossession.

this Epistle.

4 Bermuda

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* 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.

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 ; 2
Enamour'd 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, s
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 canvass that creative eye,
And let its splendour, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

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Yet, Lady, no—for song so rude as mine,
Chase not the wonders of your art divine ;
Still, radiant eye, upon the canvass 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 leau'd 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.

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright

Quick over its surface play'd - 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 hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,

Which carried him off from shore ;
Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,

And the boat return'd 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 !

Say, have you ne'er, in nightly vision, stray'd
To those pure isles of ever-blooming shade,
Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, plac'd
For happy spirits in th’ Atlantic waste ? 4
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 charm'd their lapse of nightless hours

along :-
Nor yet in song, that mortal ear might suit,
For every spirit was itself a lute,
Where Virtue waken’d, with elysian breeze,
Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies.

| The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant 4 M. Gebelin says, in his Monde Primitif, Lorsque Strafromu Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven bon crût que les anciens théologiens et poëtes plaçoient les miles long) is called Drummond's Popd.

champs élysées dans les isles de l'Océan Atlantique, il n'enLady Donegall, I had reason to suppose, was at this time tendit rien à leur doctrine." M. Gebelin's supposition, I still in Switzerland, where the well-known powers of her have no doubt, is the more correct; but that of Strabo is, in pearil must have been frequently awakened.

the present instance, most to my purpose. 3 The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne.

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 arbours o'er the western wave,
Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime,
Of bowers ethereal, and the Spirit's clime.

Delicate Ariel ! who, in brighter hours,
Liv'd on the perfume of these honied bowers,
In velvet buds, at evening, lov'd 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 dimm'd 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.

Bright rose the morning, every wave was still,
When the first perfume of a cedar hill
Sweety awak'd us, and, with smiling charms,
The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms. 1
Gently we stole, before the whisp'ring wind,
Through plaintain shades, that round, like awnings,

And kiss'd 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 enamour'd keel, with whisp'ring play,
Through liquid herbage seem'd to steal its way.

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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,
Brighten'd 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 play'd,
Lending the scene an ever-changing grace,
Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace
The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch, 2
And dream of temples, till her kindling torch
Lighted me back to all the glorious days
Of Attic genius; and I seem'd to gaze
On marble, from the rich Pentelic mount,
Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount.

Κεινη δ' ηνεμοισσα και ατροτος, οια 9' άλιτλες,
Αιθυιης και μαλλον επιδρομος η εσες i015,
Ποντων ενέστηρικται. .

CALLIMACH. Hymn in Del, v. 11.

Oh, what a sea of storm we've pass'd !

High mountain waves and foamy showers, And battling winds whose savage blast

But ill agrees with one whose hours

Have pass d in old Anacreon's bowers.
Yet think not poesy's bright charm
Forsook me in this rude alarm :-

Then thought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all The spirit race that come at poet's call,

| Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbour of well and warmly, but I could never turn his house into a St. George's. The number of beautiful islets, the singular Grecian temple again. clearness of the water, and the animated play of the graceful 3 This gentleman is attached to the British consulate at little boats, gliding for ever between the islands, and seeming Norfolk. His talents are worthy of a much higher sphere; to sail from one cedar-grove into another, formed altogether but the excellent dispositions of the family with whom he as lovely a miniature of nature's beauties as can well be resides, and the cordial repose he enjoys amongst some of the imagined.

kindest hearts in the world, should be almost enough to atone 2 This is an allusion which, to the few who are fanciful to him for the worst caprices of fortune. The consul him. enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda par- self, Colonel Hamilton, is one among the very few instances ticularly interesting. In the short but beautiful twilight of of a man, ardently loyal to his king, and yet beloved by the their spring evenings, the white cottages, scattered over the Americans. His house is the very temple of hospitality, and islands, and but partially seen through the trees that sur- I sincerely pity the heart of that stranger who, warm from round them, assume osten the appearance of little Grecian the welcome of such a board, could sit down to write a libel on temples; and a vivid fancy may embellish the poor fisher. his host, in the true spirit of a modern philosophist. See the man's hut with columns such as the pencil of a Claude might Travels of the Duke de la Rouchefoucault Liancourt, vol. ii. imitate. I had one favourite object of this kind in my walks, 4 We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by asking Bermuda, during three of which we were forced to lay-to in me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me a gale of wind.

The Driver sloop of war, in which I went,

When close they reef'd the timid sail,

The muse and I together sung, When, every plank complaining loud,

With Boreas to make out the trio. We labour'd in the midnight gale,

But, bless the little fairy isle ! And ev'n our haughty main-mast bow'd,

How sweetly after all our ills, Even then, in that unlovely hour,

We saw the sunny morning smile The Muse still brought her soothing power,

Serenely o’er its fragrant hills ; And, midst the war of waves and wind,

And felt the pure, delicious flow In song's Elysium lapp'd my mind.

Of airs, that round this Eden blow Nay, when no numbers of my own

Freshly as ev’n the gales that come
Responded to her wakening tone,

O'er our own healthy hills at home.
She open'd, with her golden key,
The casket where my memory lays,

Could you but view the scenery fair,
Those gems of classic poesy,

That now beneath my window lies, Which time has sav'd from ancient days.

You'd think, that nature lavish'd there

Her purest wave, her softest skies, Take one of these, to Lais sung,

To make a heaven for love to sigh in, I wrote it while my hammock swung,

For bards to live and saints to die in. As one might write a dissertation

Close to my wooded bank below, Upon “ Suspended Animation !"

In glassy calm the waters sleep,

And to the sunbeam proudly show Sweet 1 is your kiss, my Lais dear,

The coral rocks they love to steep.? But, with that kiss I feel a tear

The fainting breeze of morning fails ; Gush from your eyelids, such as start

The drowsy boat moves slowly past, When those who've dearly lov'd must part.

And I can almost touch its sails Sadly you lean your head to mine,

As loose they flap around the mast. And mute those arms around me twine,

The noontide sun a splendour pours Your hair adown my bosom spread,

That lights up all these leafy shores ; All glittering with the tears you shed.

While his own heav'n, its clouds and beams, In vain I've kiss'd those lids of snow,

So pictur'd in the waters lie, For still, like ceaseless founts they flow,

That each small bark, in passing, seems Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet.

To float along a burning sky.
Why is it thus ? do, tell me, sweet!
Ah, Lais! are my bodings right ?

Oh for the pinnace lent to thee, 3
Am I to lose you ? is to-night

Blest dreamer, who, in vision bright, Our last go, false to heaven and me!

Didst sail o'er heaven's solar sea
Your very tears are treachery.

And touch at all its isles of light.
Sweet Venus, what a clime he found

Within thy orb’s ambrosial round ! -
Such, while in air I floating hung,

There spring the breezes, rich and warm, Such was the strain, Morgante mio!

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That sigh around thy vesper car ; vas bunlt at Bermuda of cedar, and is accounted an excellent Ειτε δ' ανειρομένω, τινος oύνεκα δακρυα λειζεις ; reaboat. She was then commanded by my very much re

Δειδια μη με λιτης εστι γας ορκαταται. | grettel friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed 2 The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks

aboard the Lilly in an action with a French privateer. Poor are seen beneath to a very great depth ; and, as we entered Compon! he fell a victim to the strange impolicy of allowing the harbour, they appeared to us so near the surface that it

such a miserable thing as the Lilly to remain in the service; seemed impossible we should not strike on them. There is 1

50 steall, crank, and unmanageable, that a well-manned no necessity, of course, for heaving the lead; and the negro Lerchantroan was at any time a match for her.

pilot, looking down at the rocks from the bow of the ship, This epigram is by Paul the Silentiary, and may be found takes her through this difficult navigation, with a skill and in the Analecta of Brunck, vol. iii. p. 72. As the reading confidence which seem to astonish some of the oldest sailors. there is somewhat different from what I have followed in this 3 In Kircher's “ Ecstatic Journey to Heaven," Cosmiel, translation, I shall give it as I had it in my memory at the the genius of the world, gives Theodidactus a boat of asbestos, time, and as it is in Heinsius, who, I believe, first produced with which he embarks into the regions of the sun. * Vides ibe epigram. See his Poemata.

(says Cosmiel) hanc asbestinam naviculam commoditati tuæ "Ηδυ μι» στι φιλημα το Λαιδος ηδυ δε αυτουν

præparatam." Itinerar. I. Dial. i. cap. 5. This work of Ητιοδινητου δακρυ χεις βλεφαρων, .

Kircher abounds with strange fancies.
Και πολυ κιχλίζουσα σουεις ευβοστρυχον αιγλης,

4 When the Genius of the world and his fellow-traveller "Ημιτερα κεφαλην δηρον εξεισαμίνη.

arrive at the planet Venus, they find an island of loveliness, Μυρομενον δ' εφιλησα τα δ' ά, δροσερης ατο πηγης, full of odours and intelligences, where angels preside, who Δακανα μιγνυμενων τιπτι κατα στοματων

shed the cosmetic influence of this planet over the earth;


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