Gently we stole, before the languid wind,

Through plaintain shades, that like an awning twined
And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails,
Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales;
White, far reflected o'er the wave serene,
Each wooded island shed so soft a green,
That the enamour'd keel, with whispering play,
Through liquid herbage seem'd to steel its way!
Never did weary bark more sweetly glide,
Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide!
Along the margin, many a brilliant dome,
While 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,
Wreathing the structure into various grace,
Fancy would love, in many a form, to trace
The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,
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.

Sweet airy being !* who, in brighter hours,
Lived on the perfume of these honey'd 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 dimm'd or ruffled by a wintry sky,
Could smooth its feather and relume its dye)
A moment wander 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! take their fairest tint, their softiest light,
Weave all their beauty into dreams of night,
And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies,
Shed the warm picture o'er her mental eyes
Borrow for sleep her own creative spells,

And brightly shew what song but faintly tells!

* Among the many charms which Bermuda has for a poetic eye, we cannot for an instant forget that it is the scene of Shakspeare's Tempest, and that here he conjured up the "delicate Ariel," who alone is worth the whole heaven of ancient mythology.

TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ.,

OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.

From Bermuda, January 1804.

Ou what a tempest whirl'd us hither!
Winds whose savage breath could wither
All the light and languid flowers
That bloom in Epicurus' bowers!

Yet think not, George, that fancy's charm
Forsook me in this rude alarm,

When close they reef'd the timid sail,
When, every plank complaining loud,
We labour'd in the midnight gale,

And even our haughty mainmast bow'd!

The muse, in that unlovely hour,
Benignly brought her soothing power,
And, midst the war of waves and wind,
In song's elysian lapp'd my mind!
She open'd, with her golden key,

The casket where my memory lays
Those little gems of 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!"

"Sweetly you kiss, my Lais dear!
But while you kiss I feel a tear,
Bitter as those when lovers part,
In mystery from your eye-lid start!
Sadly you lean your head to mine,
And round my neck in silence twine,
Your hair along my bosom spread,
All humid with the tears you shed!
Have I not kiss'd those lids of snow?
Yet still, my love, like 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 dewy morning hills Serenely o'er its fragrant smile And felt the pure, elastic flow Of airs that round this Eden blow With honey freshness, caught by stealth Warm from the very lips of health!

Oh! could you view the scenery dear
That now beneath my window lies,
You'd think that nature lavish'd here

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!

The fainting breeze of morning fails,
The drowsy boat moves slowly past,
And I can almost touch its sails

That languish idly round the mast.
The sun has now profusely given
The flashes of a noontide heaven,
And, as the wave reflects his beams,
Another heaven its surface seems!
Blue light and clouds of silvery tears
So pictured o'er the waters lie,
That every languid bark appears
To float along a burning sky!

Oh for the boat the angel gave
To him who in his heavenward flight
Sail'd, o'er the sun's ethereal wave,
To planet-isles of odorous light!
Sweet Venus, what a clime he found
Within thy orb's ambrosial round!
There spring the breezes, rich and warm,
That pant around thy twilight car;
There angels dwell, so pure of form,
That each appears a living star!

These are the sprites, O radiant queen!
Thou sendst so often to the bed
Of her I love, with spell unseen,

Thy planet's bright'ning balm to shed;

To make the eye's enchantment clearer,
To give the cheek one rosebud more,
And bid that flushing lip be dearer,

Which had been, oh! so dear before!
But whither means the Muse to roam?
'Tis time to call the wanderer home.
Who could have ever thought to search 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! Fare you well!-remember too,

When cups are flowing to the brim, That here is one who drinks to you, And, oh!-as warmly drink to him.

LINES,

WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

OH! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given.
To rapture'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 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 misery'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.

I.

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
Unfever'd by her false delights,
Thither my wounded soul would fly,
Where rosy cheek or radiant eye

Should bring no more their bliss, their pain,
Or 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 enamouring shone !
How many hours were idly past,
As if such bliss must ever last,
Unmindful of the fleeting day,
Have I dissolved life's dream away!
Oh bloom of time profusely shed!
Oh moments! simply, vainly fled,
Yet sweetly too-for 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 dear! couldst thou, like her,
When warm to feel and quick to err,
Of loving fond, of roving fonder,

My thoughtless soul might wish to wander,
Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim,
Endearing still, reproaching never,
Till all my heart should burn with shame,
And be thy own more fix'd than ever?