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EPISTLES, ODES,

AND OTHER

POEMS.

Tanti non es, ais. Sapis, Luperce.

MARTIAL, Lib. i. Epig. 118.

ΠΕΡΙΠΛΕΥΣΑΙ ΜΕΝ ΠΟΛΛΑΣ ΠΟΛΕΙΣ ΚΑΛΟΝ,
ΕΝΟΙΚΗΣΑΙ ΔΕ ΤΗ ΚΡΑΤΙΣΤΗ ΧΡΗΣΙΜΟΝ,

PLUTARCH. περί παίδων αγωγής.

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,

7, Bury Street, St. James's, April 10, 1806.

PREFACE.

THOMAS MOORE.

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 object of such interesting speculation, I determined to employ the short period of time, which my plan of return to Europe afforded me, in travelling through few of the States and acquiring some knowledge of

the inhabitants.

a

I was completely disappointed in every flattering expectation which I had formed, and was inclined to say to America, as Horace says to his mistress, “intentata nites." Brissot, in the preface to his travels, observes, that "freedom in that country is carried 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 Washington and Lake Erie. How far I was right, in thus assuming the tone of a satirist against a people whom I viewed but as a stranger and a visitor, is a doubt which my feelings did not allow me time to investigate. All I presume to answer for, is the fidelity of the picture which I have given; and though prudence might have dictated gentler language, truth, I think, would have justified severer.

I went to America, with prepossessions by no means unfavourable, and indeed rather indulged in

1 Epistles VI, VII, and VIII.

but in the violence of party spirit and of private animosity which results from it. This illiberal zeal embitters all social intercourse; and, though I scarcely could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared the more pure and rational, yet I was sorry to observe that, in asserting their opinions, they both assume an equal share of intolerance; the Democrats, consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgarity of rancour, which the Federalists too often are so forgetful of their cause as to imitate.

The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and indeed the unpolished state of society in general, would neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed to flow

We thought the rapid hours too few,
Our only use for knowledge then

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
vices, and all the pride, of civilization, while they are
still so remote from its elegant characteristics, it is
impossible not to feel that this youthful decay, this
crude anticipation of the natural period of corruption,
represses every sanguine hope of the future energy
and greatness of America.

I am conscious that, in venturing these few remarks, I have said just enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to convince; for the limits of a preface will not allow me to enter into a justification of my opinions, and I am committed on the subject as effectually, as if I had written volumes in their defence. My reader, however, is apprized of the very cursory observation upon which these opinions are founded, and can easily decide for himself upon the degree of attention or confidence which they merit. With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the following pages, I know not in what manner to apologize to the public for intruding upon their notice such a mass of unconnected trifles, such a world of epicurean atoms as I have here brought in conflict together. To say that I have been tempted by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse which can hope for but little indulgence from the critic; yet I own that, without this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for such imperfect productions: they should be shown but to the eye of friendship, in that dim light of privacy, which is as favourable to poetical as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for faults, while it enhances every charm which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle occupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read such trifles, and I sincerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them.

EPISTLE I.

TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE OFF THE AZORES;
BY MOONLIGHT.

SWEET Moon! if like Crotona's sage,'

By any spell my hand could dare
To make thy disk its ample page,

And write my thoughts, my wishes there;
How many a friend, whose careless eye
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet
The recollection, kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,
'The promise, never to forget,
And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-lov'd, distant friend!

Oh STRANGFORD! when we parted last,
I little thought the times were past,

1 Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the Moon, by the means of a magic mirror. See Bayle, Art. Pythag.

To turn to rapture all we knew!
Delicious days of whim and soul !
When, mingling lore and laugh together,
We lean'd the book on pleasure's bowl,
And turn'd the leaf with folly's feather!
I little thought that all were fled,
That, ere that summer's bloom was shed,
My eye should see the sail unfurl'd
That wafts me to the western world!
And yet 'twas time-in youthful days,
To cool the season's burning rays,
The heart may let its wanton wing
Repose awhile in pleasure's spring,
But, if it wait for winter's breeze,
The spring will dry, the heart will freeze!
And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,

Oh! she awak'd such happy dreams,
And gave my soul such tempting scope
For all its dearest, fondest schemes,
That not Verona's child of song,
When flying from the Phrygian shore,
With lighter hopes could bound along,
Or pant to be a wanderer more!!
Even now delusive hope will steal
Amid the dark regrets I feel,
Soothing as yonder placid beam

Pursues the murmurers of the deep,
And lights them with consoling gleam,
And smiles them into tranquil sleep!
Oh! such a blessed night as this,

I often think, if friends were near,
How we should feel, and gaze with bliss
Upon the moon-bright scenery here!
The sea is like a silvery lake,

And, o'er its calm the vessel glides
Gently, as if it fear'd to wake

The slumber of the silent tides!
The only envious cloud that lowers,

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,*
Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers,
And scowling at this heav'n of light,
Exults to see the infant storm
Cling darkly round his giant form!

Now, could I range those verdant isles

Invisible, at this soft hour,

And see the looks, the melting smiles,
That brighten many an orange bower;
And could I lift each pious veil,

And see the blushing cheek it shades,
Oh! I should have full many a tale,
To tell of young Azorian maids."

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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 sea2

Is one, whose heart remembers thee!

STANZAS.

Θυμος δε ποτ' εμος ............
................ με προσφώνει ταδι
Γίνωσκε τ' ανθρώπεια μη σεβείν αγαν.
Eschyl. 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!"

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.

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'

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!

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1 It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I beleve 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; 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,
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;

And he who came, of all bereft,

Oh! love the song, and let it oft

Live on your lip, in warble soft!

To whom malignant fate had left
Nor home nor friends nor country dear,
Finds home and friends and country here!

Such is the picture, warmly such,
The long the spell of fancy's touch
Hath painted to my sanguine eye
Of man's new world of liberty!
Oh! ask me not if Truth will seal
The reveries of fancy's zeal-
If yet my charmed eyes behold
These features of an age of gold-
No-yet, alas! no gleaming trace !!
Never did youth, who lov'd a face
From portrait's rosy flattering art
Recoil with more regret of heart,
To find an owlet eye of grey,
Where painting pour'd the sapphire's ray,
Than I have felt, indignant felt,

To think the glorious dreams should melt,
Which oft, in boyhood's witching time,
Have wrapt me to this wond'rous clime!
But, courage yet, my wavering heart!
Blame not the temple's meanest part,2
Till you have traced the fabric o'er :-
As yet, we have beheld no more
Than just the porch to freedom's fane;
And, though a sable drop may stain
The vestibule, 'tis impious sin
To doubt there's holiness within!
So here I pause-and now, my Kate,
To you (whose simplest ringlet's fate
Can claim more interest in my soul
Than all the Powers from pole to pole)
One word at parting: in the tone
Most sweet to you, and most my own.
The simple notes I send you here,"
Though rude and wild, would still be dear,
If you but knew the trance of thought,
In which my mind their murmurs caught.
"Twas one of those enchanting dreams,
That lull me oft, when Music seems
To pour the soul in sound along,
And turn its every sigh to song!
I thought of home, the according lays
Respir'd the breath of happier days;
Warmly in every rising note
I felt some dear remembrance float
Till, led by music's fairy chain,

I wander'd back to home again!

1 Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the "Account of Kentucky by Imlay," would seduce us into a 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 travellers 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.

2 Norfolk, it must be owned, is an unfavourable specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not 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, and every odour that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation.

3 A trifling attempt at musical composition accompanied this epistle.

Say that it tells you, simply well,
All I have bid its murmurs tell,

Of memory's glow, of dreams that shed
The tinge of joy when joy is fled,
And all the heart's illusive hoard
Of love renew'd and friends restor❜d!
Now, Sweet, adieu-this artless air,
And a few rhymes, in transcript fair,'
Are all the gifts I yet can boast
To send you from Columbia's coast;
But when the sun, with warmer smile,
Shall light me to my destin'd Isle,2
You shall have many a cowslip-bell
Where Ariel slept, and many a shell,
In which the gentle spirit drew
From honey flowers the morning dew.

TO CARA,

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

CONCEAL'D within the shady wood
A mother left her sleeping child
And flew to cull her rustic food,

The fruitage of the forest wild.
But storms upon her path-way rise,

The mother roams astray and weeping, Far from the weak appealing cries

Of him she left so sweetly sleeping. She hopes, she fears-a light is seen,

And gentler blows the night-wind's breath, Yet no 'tis gone-the storms are keen, The baby may be chill'd to death;

Perhaps his little eyes are shaded

Dim by Death's eternal chill-
And yet, perhaps, they are not faded;

Life and love may light them still.
Thus, when my soul with parting sigh,

Hung on thy hand's bewildering touch, And, timid, ask'd that speaking eye,

If parting pain'd thee half so muchI thought, and, oh! forgive the thought, For who, by eyes like thine inspir'd, Could ere resist the flattering fault

Of fancying what his soul desir'd? Yes-I did think, in CARA's mind,

Though yet to CARA'S mind unknown,
I left one infant wish behind,

One feeling, which I call'd my own!
Oh, blest! though but in fancy blest,
How did I ask of pity's care,
To shield and strengthen in thy breast,
The nursling I had cradled there.
And, many an hour beguil'd by pleasure,

And many an hour of sorrow numbering,
I ne'er forget the new-born treasure,
I left within thy bosom slumbering.

1 The poems which immediately follow, 2 Bermuda.

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