"And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,1 "Where, all night long, by a fire-fly 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 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

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!

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.

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.

3 The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne.

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 ; 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, 3
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.

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.

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.

Bright rose the morning, every wave was still,
When the first perfume of a cedar hill
Sweetly 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,
twin'd

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.

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 poet's call,

1 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.

2 This is an allusion 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 favourite 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

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.

ΤΟ

GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ.

OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.3

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

Κείνη δ' ηνεμόεσσα και άτροπος, οια θ' άλιπληξ,
Αίθεσης και μάλλον επίδρομος κεπες ίπποις,
Ποντο ενέστηρίκται.

CALLIMACH. Hymn in Del. v. 11.

On, 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 : 4 —

well and warmly, but I could never turn his house into a Grecian temple again.

3 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 repose he enjoys amongst some of the kindest hearts in the world, should be almost enough to atone to him for the worst caprices of fortune. 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 on his host, in the true spirit of a modern philosophist. See the Travels of the Duke de la Rouchefoucault Liancourt, vol. ii. 4 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,

When close they reef'd the timid sail,

When, every plank complaining loud, We labour'd in the midnight gale,

And ev❜n our haughty main-mast bow'd, 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 lapp'd my mind.
Nay, when no numbers of my own
Responded to her wakening tone,
She open'd, with her golden key,

The casket where my memory lays,
Those gems of classic poesy,

Which time has sav'd 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 lov'd 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 kiss'd 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!

was built at Bermuda of cedar, and is accounted an excellent sea-boat. She was then commanded by my very much regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed aboard the Lilly 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 Lilly to remain in the service; so small, crank, and unmanageable, that a well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her.

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.

Ηλυ μεν εστι φίλημα το Λαίδος ήδυ δε αυτών
Ηπιοδίνητων δακρυ χεις βλεφάρων,

Και πολύ κιχλίζουσα τόξεις ευβοστρυχον αίγλην,
Ημέτερα κεφαλην δηρον ερεισαμένη.

Μερομένην δ' εφίλησα τα δ' ώ, δροσερής από πηγής,
Δάκρυα μιγνυμένων πιπτε κατα στομάτων

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 ev'n 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 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.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 splendour pours
That lights up all these leafy shores;
While his own heav'n, its clouds and beams,

So pictur'd 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;

Είπε δ' ανειζομένῳ, τίνος ούνεκα δακρυα λείβεις ;
Δείδια μη με λιτης εστε γαρ όρκαπαται.

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 harbour, 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 heaving 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," Cosmiel, the genius of the world, gives Theodidactus a boat of asbestos, with which he embarks into the regions of the sun. "Vides (says Cosmiel) hane asbestinam naviculam commoditati tuæ præparatam."-Itinerar. I. Dial. i. cap. 5. This work of Kircher abounds with strange fancies.

4 When the Genius of the world and his fellow-traveller arrive at the planet Venus, they find an island of loveliness, full of odours and intelligences, where angels preside, who shed the cosmetic influence of this planet over the earth;

And angels dwell, so pure of form
That each appears a living star. 1
These are the sprites, celestial queen!
Thou sendest nightly to the bed
Of her I love, with touch unseen

Thy planet's bright'ning 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 wand'rer 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.

"Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumb'ring with the dead to-morrow
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 drain'd 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.

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 ev'n this heart should burn with shame,
And be thy own more fix'd than ever?
No, noon 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 shrineGo, 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 stray'd;
"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 look'd and thought; "Twas more than tongue could dare reveal, "Twas ev'ry thing that young hearts feel, By Love and Nature taught.

I stoop'd to cull, with faltering hand, A shell that, on the golden sand, Before us faintly gleam'd;

I trembling rais'd it, and when you Had kist the shell, I kist it too

How sweet, how wrong it seem'd!

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 dar'd 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 seem'd 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 hallow'd form with hand so free, When but to look was bliss too much, Too rare for all but Love and me!