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. I look'd to the west, and the beautiful sky, Which morning had clouded, was clouded no "Oh! thus," I exclaimed, "may a heavenly eye "Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before." more: STANZAS. θυμος δε ποτ' εμος -- Γίνωσκε τανθρώπεια μη σεβείν αγαν. A BEAM of tranquillity smil'd in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no more; And the wave, while it welcom'd the moment of rest, Still heav'd, 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 becalm'd but remember'd their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled. I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire We inherit from heav'n, may be quench'd in the clay; And I pray'd of that Spirit who lighted the flame, How blest was the thought! it appear'd as if Heaven 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 ΤΟ THE FLYING FISH.' WHEN I have seen thy snow-white wing But, when I see that wing, so bright, 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. ΤΟ MISS MOORE. FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803. IN days, my Kate, when life was new, When, lull'd with innocence and you, similitude between them : συγγένειαν τους πετομένοις προς τα νηκτα. 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. I heard, in home's beloved shade, 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 soft, 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! It comes o'er ocean, slow and late, When the dear hand that fill'd its fold With words of sweetness may lie cold. But hence that gloomy thought! at last, Where man looks up, and, proud to claim 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, 1 Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into e belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world for Martha's Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio. The French truvellers, too, almost all from revolutionary motives, have contributed their share to the diffusion of this flattering misconception. A visit to the country is, however, quite sufficient to correct even the most enthusiastic prepossession. Smiles on the dusky webs that hide The drops that war had sprinkled there. Such is the picture, warmly such, To find a dream on which I've dwelt But, courage, yet, my wavering heart! Blame not the temple's meanest part, 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, ? Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavourable specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are mot 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, an! every odour that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation. One word at parting Most sweet to you, and most my own. I found some young remembrance float, Oh! love the song, and let it oft Of Memory's dream, of thoughts that yet 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." dth. "La Poésie a ses monstres comme la nature."-D'ALEMBERT. "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— 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 stirr'd the brake, And the copper-snake breath'd 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 Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark, But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL. FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. LADY! where'er you roam, whatever land Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond. 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. Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline, Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains; 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 lean'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. 1 The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne. 2 M. Gebelin says, in his Monde Primitif, “Lorsque Strabon crût que les anciens théologiens et portes plaçoient les champs Elysées dans les isles de l'Océan Atlantique, il n'entendit rien à leur doctrine." M.Gebelin's supposition, I have no doubt, is the more correct; but that of Strabo is, in the present instance, most to my purpose. 3 Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbour 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 well be imagined. Bright rose the morning, every wave was still, And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails, 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 Then thought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all The spirit race that come at peet's call, This is an allusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge in it, rendere the scenery of Bermuda particularly 17 teresting. 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 resel of a Claude might imitat. I had one favourite obiect of this kin 4 in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of. Ly 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. Oh cull their choicest tints, their softest light, ΤΟ GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ. OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.! FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. Κείνη δ' ηνεμόεσσα και άτροπος, μια θ' άλιπληξ, OH, what a sea of storm we've pass'd! - And ev❜n our haughty main-mast bow'd, Even then, in that unlovely hour, The Muse still brought her soothing power, Which time has sav'd from ancient days. Take one of these, to Lais sung, -- I wrote it while my hammock swung, This gentleman is attached to the British consulate at Norfolk. His talents are worthy of a much higher sphere; but the excellent dispositions of the family with whom he resides, and the cordial Tepose he enjoys amongst some of the kindest hearts in the world, ld be almost enough to atone to him for the worst caprices of firtane. The consul himself, Colonel Hamilton, is one among the very few instances of a man, ardently loyal to his king, and yet beloved by the Americans. His house is the very temple of hospitality, and I sincerely pity the heart of that stranger who, warm from the welcome of such a board, could sit down to write a libel his host, in the true spirit of a modern philosophist. See the Travels of the Duke de la Rochefoucault Liancourt, vol. ii. We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, daring 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 sca-boat. She was then commanded by my very much regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July laat was killed aboard the Lilly in an action with a French privateer. Poor Compton! he fell a victim to the strange impolicy of As one might write a dissertation Sweet is your kiss, my Lais dear, SUCH, while in air I floating hung, How sweetly after all our ills, Serenely o'er its fragrant hills; That now beneath my window lies, You'd think, that nature lavish'd 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 glassy calm the waters sleep, And to the sunbeam proudly show The coral rocks they love to steep. allowing such a miserable thing as the Lilly to remain in the service; so small, crank, and unmanageable, that a well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her. 3 This epigram is by Paul the Silentiary, and may be found in the Analecta of Brunck, vol. iii. p. 72. As the reading there is somewhat different from what I have followed in this translation, I shall give it as I had it in my memory at the time, and as it is in Heinsius, who, I believe, first produced the epigram. See his Poemata. Ήδη μεν εστι φίλημα το Λαίδος ήδν δε αυτών 4 The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks are seen |