And make thee smile at all the magic tales
Of starlight bowers and planetary vales,
Which my fond soul, inspired by thee and love,
In slumber's loom hath exquisitely wove.
But no; no more. Soon as to-morrow's ray
O'er soft Ilissus shall dissolve away,
I'll fly, my Theon, to thy burning breast,
And there in murmurs tell thee all the rest;
Then if too weak, too cold the vision seems,
Thy lip shall teach me something more than dreams!
THE STEERSMAN'S SONG.
Written aboard the Boston Frigate.
WHEN freshly blows the northern gale,
And under courses snug we fly;
When lighter breezes swell the sail,
And royals proudly sweep the sky;
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still
I stand, and as my watchful eye
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,
I think of her I love, and cry,
Port, my boy! port.
When calms delay, or breezes blow
Right from the point we wish to steer;
When by the wind close-hauled we go,
And strive in vain the port to near;
I think 'tis thus the fates defer
My bliss with one that's far away,
And while remembrance springs to her,
I watch the sails, and sighing say,
Thus, my boy! thus.
But see, the wind draws kindly aft,
All hands are up the yards to square,
And now the floating stu'n-sails waft
Our stately ship through waves and air.
Oh! then I think that yet for me
Some breeze of fortune thus may spring,
Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee!
And in that hope I smiling sing,
IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.
I COULD resign that eye of blue,
Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me;
And though your lip be rich with dew,
To lose it, Chloe, scarce would kill me.
That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,
However warm I've twined about it;
And though your bosom beat with bliss,
I think my soul could live without it.
In short, I've learned so well to fast
That sooth, my love, I know not whether
I might not bring myself at last
To do without you altogether!
TO THE FIRE-FLY.*
THIS morning, when the earth and sky
Were burning with the blush of spring,
I saw thee not, thou humble fly!
Nor thought upon thy gleaming wing.
But now the skies have lost their hue,
And sunny lights no longer play,
I see thee, and I bless thee too
For sparkling o'er the dreary way.
Oh! let me hope that thus for me,
When life and love shall lose their bloom,
Some milder joys may come, like thee,
To light, if not to warm, the gloom!
THERE was a vase of odour lay
For many an hour on Beauty's shrine,
So sweet that Love went every day
To banquet on its breath divine.
And not an eye had ever seen
The fragrant charm the vase concealed;
O Love! how happy 'twould have been
If thou hadst ne'er that charm revealed!
But Love, like every other boy,
Would know the spell that lurks within ;
He wished to break the crystal toy,
But Beauty murmured 'twas a sin!
He swore, with many a tender plea,
That neither Heaven nor earth forbad it;
She told him, Virtue kept the key,
And looked as if she wished he had it!
*The lively and varying illumination with which these fire-flies light up the woods at night gives quite an idea of enchantment.—See L'Histoire des Antilles, art. 2, chap. 4, liv. 1.
He stole the key when Virtue slept
(Even she can sleep, if Love but ask it)
And Beauty sighed, and Beauty wept,
While silly Love unlocked the casket.
O dulcet air that vanished then!
Can Beauty's sigh recall thee ever?
Can Love himself inhale again
A breath so precious? never, never!
Go, maiden, weep-the tears of woe
By Beauty to repentance given,
Though bitterly on earth they flow,
Shall turn to fragrant balm in heaven!
THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN.
I BRING thee, love, a golden chain,
I bring thee, too, a flowery wreath ;
The gold shall never wear a stain,
The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe!
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.
The Chain is of a splendid thread,
Stolen from Minerva's yellow hair,
Just when the setting sun had shed
The sober beam of evening there.
The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove,
With brilliant tears of bliss among it,
And many a rose-leaf, culled by Love,
To heal his lip when bees have stung it!
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.
Yes, yes, I read that ready eye,
Which answers when the tongue is loth.
Thou likest the form of either tie,
And hold'st thy playful hands for both.
Ah!-if there were not something wrong,
The world would see them blended oft;
The Chain would make the Wreath so strong!
The Wreath would make the Chain so soft!
Then might the gold, the flowerets be
Sweet fetters for my love and me!
But, Fanny, so unblest they twine
That (Heaven alone can tell the reason)
When mingled thus they cease to shine,
Or shine but for a transient season!
Whether the Chain may press too much,
Or that the Wreath is slightly braided,
Let but the gold the flowerets touch,
And all their glow, their tints, are faded!
Sweet Fanny, what would Rapture do, When all her blooms had lost their grace? Might she not steal a rose or two
From other Wreaths, to fill their place? Oh! better to be always free
Than thus to bind my love to me.
The timid girl now hung her head,
And, as she turned an upward glance,
I saw a doubt its twilight spread
Along her brow's divine expanse.
Just then, the garland's dearest rose
Gave one of its seducing sighs-
Oh! who can ask how Fanny chose
That ever looked in Fanny's eyes!
"The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be
The tie to bind my soul to thee!"
AND hast thou marked the pensive shade
That many a time obscures my brow,
'Midst all the blisses, darling maid,
Which thou canst give, and only thou?
Oh 'tis not that I then forget
The endearing charms that round me twine
There never throbbed a bosom yet
Could feel their witchery like mine!
When bashful on my bosom hid,
And blushing to have felt so blest.
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid.
Again to close it on my breast!
Oh! these are minutes all thine own,
Thine own to give, and mine to feel;
Yet e'en in them, my heart has known
The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.
For I have thought of former hours,
When he who first thy soul possessed, Like me, awaked its witching powers,
Like me was loved, like me was blest!
Upon his name thy murmuring tongue
Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt ;
For him that snowy lid hath hung
In ecstacy, as purely felt!
For him yet why the past recall
To wither blooms of present bliss?
Thou'rt now my own, I clasp thee all,
And Heaven can grant no more than this!
Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive;
I would be first, be sole to thee,
Thou shouldst have but begun to live,
The hour that gave thy heart to me.
Thy book of life till then effaced,
Love should have kept that leaf alone
On which he first so dearly traced
That thou wert, soul and all, my own!
TO LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.
From the City of Washington.
Και μη θαυμασης μητ ̓ εἰ μακροτέραν γεγραφα την επιςτολην, μηδ' εἰ τι περιεργότερον ή πρεσβυτικωτερον εἰρηκαμεν ἐν αὐτη.
IF former times had never left a trace
Of human frailty in their shadowy race,
Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran,
One dark memorial of the crimes of man ;
If every age, in new unconscious prime,
Rose, like a phoenix, from the fires of time,
To wing its way unguided and alone,
The future smiling, and the past unknown;
Then ardent man would to himself be new,
Earth at his foot and heaven within his view:
Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme
Of full perfection prompt his daring dream,
Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore,
Could tell him fools had dreamed as much before!
But, tracing as we do, through age and clime,
The plans of virtue 'midst the deeds of crime,
The thinking follies and the reasoning rage
Of man, at once the idiot and the sage;
When still we see, through every varying frame
Of arts and polity, his course the same,
And know that ancient fools but died, to make
A space on earth for modern fools to take;
'Tis strange how quickly we the past forget;
That wisdom's self should not be tutored yet,
Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth
Of pure perfection 'midst the sons of earth!
Oh! nothing but that soul which God has given
Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven;
|