EPISTLES, ODES, AND OTHER POEMS. Tanti non es, ais. Sapis, Luperce. MARTIAL, Lib. i. Epig. 118. ΠΕΡΙΠΛΕΥΣΑΙ ΜΕΝ ΠΟΛΛΑΣ ΠΟΛΕΙΣ ΚΑΛΟΝ, 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, 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, from that simplicity of character, that honest igno- For ever past, when brilliant joy 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; SWEET Moon! if like Crotona's sage,' By any spell my hand could dare And write my thoughts, my wishes there; Oh STRANGFORD! when we parted last, 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! Oh! she awak'd such happy dreams, Pursues the murmurers of the deep, I often think, if friends were near, And, o'er its calm the vessel glides The slumber of the silent tides! Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,* Now, could I range those verdant isles Invisible, at this soft hour, And see the looks, the melting smiles, And see the blushing cheek it shades, Dear STRANGFORD! at this hour, perhaps, Some faithful lover (not so blest As they, who in their ladies' laps 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 ............ 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; The pearl of the soul may be melted away! Had already the wreath of eternity shown; I look'd to the west, and the beautiful sky 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 As ear had never drunk till then! So stilly could the notes prolong; Was but the breath of fancied woes, 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; So oft, to make the dear-one bless'd, It chanc'd that in the fairy bower They listen'd to each other's vow, 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, But takes the plume that God has given, Let me, in that aspiring day, Cast every lingering stain away, 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, I linger'd from your arms away, I tread on earth securely now, At length I touch the happy sphere The drops that war had sprinkled there. Thrice happy land! where he who flies 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 Such is the picture, warmly such, To think the glorious dreams should melt, 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, Of memory's glow, of dreams that shed TO CARA, AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE. CONCEAL'D within the shady wood The fruitage of the forest wild. 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- Life and love may light them still. 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, One feeling, which I call'd my own! And many an hour of sorrow numbering, 1 The poems which immediately follow, 2 Bermuda. |