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gold, and set with precious stones of immense value,

Every prince of the house of Bhamenee, who pos. The cerulean throne of Koolburga.

sessed this Throne, made a point of adding to it some * On Mahommed Shaw's return to Koolburga (the rich stones, so that when, in the reign of Sultan Macapital of Dekkan) he made a great festival, and mood, it was taken to pieces, to remove some of the mounted his throne with much pomp and magnifi- jewels to be set in vases and cups, the jewellers valued cence, calling it Firozeh or Cerulean. I have heard it at one crore of oons, (nearly four millions sterling.) some old persons, who saw the throne Firozeh in I learned also that it was called Firozeh from being the reign of Sultan Mamood Bhamenee, describe it. partly enamelled of a sky-blue colour, which was in They say that it was in length nine feet, and three in time totally concealed by the number of jewels."breadth ; made of ebony, covered with plates of pure Ferishta.

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TO FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA,
GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER-GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE,

CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC. My LORD:-It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lordship without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eulogium on Hercules. “ On Hercules !" said the honest Spartan, “who ever thought of blaming Hercules ?” In a similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the panegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task I shall therefore be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to the very humble tribute of gratitude, which I have here the honour to present. I am, MY LORD, with every feeling of attachment and respect,

Your Lordship's very devoted Servant, 27, Bury Street, St. James's, April 10, 1806.

THOMAS MOORE.

PREFACE.

many of those illusive ideas, with respect to the purity

of the government and the primitive happiness of the The principal poems in the following Collection people, which I had early imbibed in my native counwere written during an absence of fourteen months try, where, unfortunately, discontent at home enhances from Europe. Though curiosity was certainly not every distant temptation, and the western world has the motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened long been looked to as a retreat from real or imagithat the gratification of curiosity was the only advan- nary oppression; as the elysian Atlantis, where pertage which I derived from it. Finding myself in the secuted patriots might find their visions realized, and country of a new people, whose infancy had promised be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and repose. so much, and whose progress to maturity has been an

I was completely disappointed in every flattering exobject of such interesting speculation, I determined to pectation which I had formed, and was inclined to employ the short period of time, which my plan of say to America, as Horace says to his mistress, “ inreturn to Europe afforded me, in travelling through a

tentata nites.” Brissot, in the preface to his travels, few of the States and acquiring some knowledge of observes, that “freedom in that country is carried the inhabitants.

to so high a degree as to border upon a state of naThe impression which my mind received from the ture ;” and there certainly is a close approximation to character and manners of these republicans, suggest- savage life, not only in the liberty which they enjoy, ed the Epistles which are written from the city of but in the violence of party spirit and of private aniWashington and Lake Erie.' How far I was right, mosity which results from it. This illiberal zeal emin thus assuming the tone of a satirist against a peo

bitters all social intercourse; and, though I scarcely ple whom I viewed but as a stranger and a visitor, is could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views apa doubt which my feelings did not allow me

me to peared the more pure and rational, yet I was sorry to investigate. All I presume to answer for, is the observe that, in asserting their opinions, they both fidelity of the pioture which I have given; and though

assume an equal share of intolerance; the Democrats, prudence might have dictated gentler language, truth, consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgariI think, would have justified severer.

ty of rancour, which the Federalists too often are so I went to America, with prepossessions by no

forgetful of their cause as to imitate. means unfavourable, and indeed rather indulged in

The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and in

deed the unpolished state of society in general, would 1 Epistles VI, VII, and VIII.

neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed to flow

from that simplicity of character, that honest igno-|For ever past, when brilliant joy
rance of the gloss of refinement, which may be look- Was all my vacant heart's employ:
ed for in a new and inexperienced people. But, When, fresh from mirth to mirth again,
when we find them arrived at maturity in most of the We thought the rapid hours too few,
vices, and all the pride, of civilization, while they are Our only use for knowledge then
still so remote from its elegant characteristics, it is To turn to rapture all we knew!
impossible not to feel that this youthful decay, this Delicious days of whim and soul !
crude anticipation of the natural period of corruption, When, mingling lore and laugh together,
represses every sanguine hope of the future energy We lean'd the book on pleasure's bowl,
and greatness of America.

And turn'd the leaf with folly's feather!
I am conscious that, in venturing these few re- I little thought that all were fied,
marks, I have said just enough to offend, and by no That, ere that summer's bloom was shed,
means sufficient to convince; for the limits of a pre- My eye should see the sail unfurl'd
face will not allow me to enter into a justification of That wafts me to the western world!
my opinions, and I am committed on the subject as And yet 'twas time—in youthful days,
effectually, as if I had written volumes in their de-To cool the season's burning rays,
fence. My reader, however, is apprized of the very The heart may let its wanton wing
cursory observation upon which these opinions are Repose awhile in pleasure's spring,
founded, and can easily decide for himself upon the But, if it wait for winter's breeze,
degree of attention or confidence which they merit. The spring will dry, the heart will freeze!

With respect to the poems in general, which oc- And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope, cupy the following pages, I know not in what manner

Oh! she awak'd such happy dreams, to apologize to the public for intruding upon their And gave my soul such tempting scope notice such a mass of unconnected trifles, such a

For all its dearest, fondest schemes, world of epicurean atoms as I have here brought in That not Verona's child of song, conflict together. To say that I have been tempted

When flying from the Phrygian shore, by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse With lighter hopes could bound along, which can hope for but little indulgence from the

Or pant to be a wanderer more !! critic; yet I own that, without this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have Even now delusive hope will steal

Amid the dark regrets I feel, been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for such imperfect productions : Soothing as yonder placid beam they should be shown but to the eye of friendship, in And lights them with consoling gleam,

Pursues the murmurers of the deep, that dim light of privacy, which is as favourable to

And smiles them into tranquil sleep! poetical as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for

Oh! such a blessed night as this, faults, while it enhances every charm which it dis

I often think, if friends were near, plays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle oc

How we should feel, and gaze with bliss cupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more active and more useful. Few have The sea is like a silvery lake,

Upon the moon-bright scenery here! now the leisure to read such trifles, and I sincerely

And, o'er its calm the vessel glides regret that I have had the leisure to write them.

Gently, as if it fear'd to wake

The slumber of the silent tides !
EPISTLE I.

The only envious cloud that lowers,

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height, TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers,

And scowling at this heav'n of light,
BY MOONLIGHT.

Exults to see the infant storin
Sweet Moon! if like Crotona's sage,'

Cling darkly round his giant form! By any spell my hand could dare

Now, could I range those verdant isles
To make thy disk its ample page,

Invisible, at this soft hour,
And write my thoughts, my wishes there; And see the looks, the melting smiles,
How many a friend, whose careless eye

That brighten many an orange bower;
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,

And could I lift each pious veil, Should smile, upon thy orb to meet

And see the blushing cheek it shades, The recollection, kind and sweet,

Oh ! I should have full many a tale,
The reveries of fond regret,

To tell of young Azorian maids.3
The promise, never to forget,
And all my heart and soul would send

1 Alluding to these animated lines in the 44th Carmen ot

this Poet: To many a dear-lov'd, distant friend!

Jam mens prætrepidans avet vagari, Oh STRANGFORD! when we parted last,

Jam leti studio pedes vigescunt! I little thought the times were past,

2 Pico is a very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the Island derives its name. It is said by some to be

as high as the Peak of Teneriffe. 1 Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of 31 believe it is Guthrie who says, that the inhabitants of writing upon the Moon, by the means of a magic mirror. the Azores are much addicted to gallantry. This is an as See Bayle, Art. Pythag.

sertion in which even Guthrie may be credited

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE OFF THE AZORES;

Dear STRANGFORD! at this hour, perhaps,

Some faithful lover (not so blest As they, who in their ladies' laps

May cradle every wish to rest,) Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul,

Those madrigals, of breath divine, Which Camoen's harp from rapture stole

And gave, all glowing warm, to thine !! Oh! could the lover learn from thee,

And breathe them with thy graceful tone, Such dear, 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!

STANZAS.

Θυμος δε ποτ' εμος ......... •............... με προσφωνει ταδε: Γινωσκε τ'ανθρωπεια μη σε βειν αγαν. .

Æschyl. Fragment.

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 the days, when to pleasure alone

My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known

Was pity for those who were wiser than I!
I felt how the pure, intellectual fire

In luxury loses its heavenly ray ;
How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire,

The pearl of the soul may be melted away!
And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame,

That pleasure no more might its purity dim: And that sullied but little, or brightly the same,

I might give back the gem I had borrow'd from him! The thought was ecstatic! I felt as if Heaven

Had already the wreath of eternity shown; As if, passion all chasten'd and error forgiven,

My heart had begun to be purely its own! I look'd to the west, and the beautiful sky

Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more: “ Oh! thus," I exclaim'd, “can a heavenly eye

Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before !"

THE TELL-TALE LYRE. I've heard, there was in ancient days

A Lyre of most melodious spell ; 'Twas heav'n to hear its fairy lays,

If half be true that legends tell. 'Twas play'd on by the gentlest sighs,

And to their breath it breath'd again In such entrancing melodies

As ear had never drunk till then ! Not harmony's serenest touch

So stilly could the notes prolong; They were not heavenly song so much

As they were dreams of heavenly song! If sad the heart, whose murmuring air

Along the chords in languor stole, The soothings it awaken'd there

Were eloquence from pity's soul! Or if the sigh, serene and light,

Was but the breath of fancied woes, The string, that felt its airy flight,

Soon whisper'd it to kind repose ! And oh! when lovers talk'd alone,

If, mid their bliss the Lyre was near, It made their murmurs all its own,

And echoed notes that heav'n might hear! There was a nymph, who long had lov'd,

But dar'd not tell the world how well; The shades, where she at evening rov'd,

Alone could know, alone could tell. 'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole

So oft, to make the dear-one bless'd, Whom love had giv'n her virgin soul,

And nature soon gave all the rest ! It chanc'd that in the fairy bower

Where they had found their sweetest shed, This Lyre, of strange and magic power,

Hung gently whispering o'er their head. And while, with eyes of mingling fire,

They listen'd to each other's vow,
The youth full oft would make the Lyre

A pillow for his angel's brow!
And while the melting words she breath'd

On all its echoes wanton'd round,
Her hair, amid the strings enwreath'd,

Through golden mazes charm'd the sound ! Alas! their hearts but little thought,

While thus entranc'd they listening lay, That every sound the Lyre was taught

Should linger long, and long betray! So mingled with its tuneful soul

Were all their tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswered stole,

Nor chang'd the sweet, the treasur'd tone. Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung

To every passing lip that sigh’d; The secrets of thy gentle tongue

On every ear in murmurs died ! The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand

Hung high, amid the breezy groves, To every wanton gale that fann'd

Betray'd the mystery of your loves!

1 These islands belong to the Portuguese.

2 From Capt. Cockburn, who commanded the Phaeton, I received such kind attentions as I must ever remember with gratitude. As some of the journalists have gravely asserted that I went to America to speculate in lands, it may not be impertinent to state, that the object of this voyage across the Atlantic was my appointment to the office of Registrar of the Vice-Admiralty Court of Bermuda.

Yet, oh!--not many a suffering hour,

Thy cup of shame on earth was giv'n: Benignly came some pitying Power,

And took the Lyre and thee to Heaven ! There as thy lover dries the tear

Yet warm from life's malignant wrongs, Within his arms, thou lov'st to hear

The luckless Lyre's remember'd songs ! Still do your happy souls attune

The notes it learn'd, on earth, to move; Still breathing o'er the chords, commune

In sympathies of angel love!

TO THE FLYING-FISH." When I have seen thy snowy wing O'er the blue wave at evening spring, And give those scales, of silver 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 scorns to rest Upon the world's ignoble breast, But takes the plume 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 ! 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!

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,
A mother saw our eyelids close,
And bless'd them into pure repose !
Then, haply, if a week, a day,
I linger'd from your arms 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 !
Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea
Rolls wide between that home and me;
The moon may thrice be born and die,
Ere e'en your seal can reach mine eye;
And oh! e'en then, that darling seal,
(Upon whose print, I us’d to feel
The breath of home, the cordial air
Of loved lips, still freshly there !)
Must come, alas! through every fate
Of time and distance, cold and late,
When the dear hand, whose touches fill'd
The leaf with sweetness, may be chill'd.
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 dies !

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 hurl'd
The systems of the ancient world!
The warrior here, in arms no more,
Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er,
And glorying in the rights they won
For hearth and altar, 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.
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;

EPISTLE II.

TO MISS M- -E. FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, Nov. 1803. In days, my Kate, when life was new, When, lull'd with innocence and you,

1 st is the opinion of St. Austín 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 similitude between them; συγγενειαν τοις πετομενοις 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.

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