If I were yonder couch of gold,

And thou the pearl within it plac'd, I would not let an eye behold

The sacred gem my arms embrac'd! If I were yonder orange-tree,

And thou the blossom blooming there,
I would not yield a breath of thee,
To scent the most imploring air!
Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink,
Give not the wave that rosy sigh,
Nor let its burning mirror drink

The soft reflection of thine eye.
That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,
Upon the billows pour their beam
So warmly, that my soul could seek
Its NEA in the painted stream.
The painted stream my chilly grave
And nuptial bed at once may be,
I'll wed thee in that mimic wave,

And die upon the shade of thee!
Behold the leafy mangrove, bending
O'er the waters blue and bright,
Like NEA's silky lashes, lending
Shadow to her eyes of light'
Oh, my beloved! where'er I turn,
Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes,
In every star thy glances burn,

Thy blush on every flowret lies.
But then thy breath!-not all the fire,
That lights the lone Semenda's' death
In eastern climes could e'er respire
An odour like thy dulcet breath!

I pray thee, on those lips of thine

To wear this rosy leaf for me,
And breathe of something not divine,
Since nothing human breathes of thee!

All other charms of thine I meet

In nature, but thy sigh alone; Then take, oh! take, though not so sweet, The breath of roses for thine own!

So, while I walk the flowery grove,

The bud that gives, through morning dew, The lustre of the lips I love,

May seem to give their perfume too!

ON SEEING AN INFANT IN NEA'S ARMS.

THE first ambrosial child of bliss,
That Psyche to her bosom prest,
Was not a brighter babe than this,
Nor blush'd upon a lovelier breast!
His little snow-white fingers, straying
Along her lips' luxuriant flower,
Look'd like a flight of ring-doves playing,
Silvery through a roseate bower!
And when, to shade the playful boy,

Her dark hair fell, in mazes bright,

1 Referunt tamen quidam in interiore India avem esse, nomine Semendam, etc. Cardan. 10 de Subtilitat. Cæsar Scaliger seems to think Semenda but another name for the Phonix. Exercitat. 233.

Oh! 'twas a type of stolen joy,

"Twas love beneath the veil of night! Soft as she smil'd, he smil'd again;

They seem'd so kindred in their charms, That one might think, the babe had then Just budded in her blooming arms!

THE SNOW SPIRIT.

Tu potes insulitas, Cynthia, ferre nives? Propert Lib. i. Eleg. 8.

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep
An island of lovelier charms;

It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,
Like Hebe in Hercules' arms!

The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye,
Their melody balm to the ear;

But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,

And the Snow-Spirit never comes here!
The down from his wing is as white as the pearl
Thy lips for their cabinet stole,

And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,
As a murmur of thine on the soul!

Oh, fly to the clime, where he pillows the death,
As he cradles the birth of the year;
Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,
But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here!
How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale,
And brightening the bosom of morn,

He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil

O'er the brow of each virginal thorn!
Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts,
Is a veil of a vestal severe;
No, no,-thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts,
Should the Snow-Spirit ever come here!

But fly to his region-lay open thy zone,
And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim,
To think that a bosom, as white as his own,
Should not melt in the day-beam like him!
Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet
O'er his luminous path will appear-
Fly! my beloved! this island is sweet,

But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here!

Ενταύθα δε καθωρμισται ημίν, και ό, τι μεν ονόμα τη νησω ουκ οίδα χρυση δ' αν τρος γε εμου ονομάζοιτο. Philostrat. Icon. 17. Lib. 2.

I STOLE along the flowery bank,
While many a bending sea-grape' drank
The sprinkle of the feathery oar

That wing'd me round this fairy shore !
"Twas noon; and every orange bud
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,
Faint as the lids of maiden eyes
Beneath a lover's burning sighs!
Oh for a naiad's sparry bower,
To shade me in that glowing hour!
A little dove, of milky hue,
Before me from a plantain flew,

1 The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies.

And, light, along the water's brim, I steered my gentle bark by him; For Fancy told me, Love had sent This snowy bird of blandishment,

To lead me where my soul should meet-
I knew not what, but something sweet.

Blest be the little pilot dove!
He had indeed been sent by Love,
To guide me to a scene so dear,
As Fate allows but seldom here:
One of those rare and brilliant hours,
Which, like the aloe's' lingering flowers,
May blossom to the eye of man
But once in all his weary span!

Just where the margin's opening shade
A vista from the waters made,
My bird repos'd his silver plume
Upon a rich banana's bloom.
Oh, vision bright! oh, spirit fair!

What spell, what magic rais'd her there?
'Twas NEA! slumbering calm and mild,
And bloomy as the dimpled child
Whose spirit in elysium keeps

Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps!

The broad banana's green embrace
Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace;
One little beam alone could win
The leaves to let it wander in,
And, stealing over all her charms,
From lip to cheek, from neck to arms,
It glanc'd around a fiery kiss,
All trembling, as it went, with bliss!

Her eyelid's black and silken fringe
Lay on her cheek, of vermil tinge,
Like the first ebon cloud, that closes
Dark on evening's heaven of roses!
Her glances, though in slumber hid,
Seem'd glowing through their ivory lid,
And o'er her lip's reflecting dew
A soft and liquid lustre threw,
Such as, declining dim and faint,
The lamp of some beloved saint
Doth shed upon a flowery wreath,
Which pious hands have hung beneath.
Was ever witchery half so sweet!
Think, think how all my pulses beat,
As o'er the rustling bank I stole-
Oh! you, that know the lover's soul,
It is for you to dream the bliss,
The tremblings of an hour like this!

ON THE LOSS OF A LETTER INTENDED FOR NEA.

OH! it was fill'd with words of flame,

With all the wishes wild and dear,

Which love may write, but dares not name,
Which woman reads, but must not hear!

1 The Agave. I know that this is an erroneous idea, but it is quite true enough for poetry. Plato, I think, allows a poet to be "three removes from truth;" TRITATOS ANO THE MANDING.

Of many a nightly dream it told,

When all that chills the heart by day,
The worldly doubt, the caution cold,
In Fancy's fire dissolve away!
When soul and soul divinely meet,

Free from the senses' guilty shame,
And mingle in a sigh so sweet,

As virtue's self would blush to blame! How could he lose such tender words? Words! that of themselves should spring TO NEA's ear, like panting birds,

With heart and soul upon their wing Oh! fancy what they dar'd to speak; Think all a virgin's shame can dread, Nor pause until thy conscious cheek

Shall burn with thinking all they said! And I shall feign, shall fancy, too,

Some dear reply thou might'st have given Shall make that lip distil its dew

In promise bland and hopes of heaven! Shall think it tells of future days,

When the averted cheek will turn,
When eye with eye shall mingle rays,
And lip to lip shall closely burn!-
Ah! if this flattery is not thine,

If colder hope thy answer brings,
I'll wish thy words were lost like mine,

Since I can dream such dearer things!

I FOUND her not-the chamber seem'd
Like some divinely haunted place,
Where fairy forms had lately beam'd
And left behind their odorous trace!

It felt, as if her lips had shed
A sigh around her, ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air

Of melodies which had been there!
I saw the web, which all the day,

Had floated o'er her cheek of rose;
I saw the couch, where late she lay
In languor of divine repose!
And I could trace the hallow'd print

Her limbs had left, as pure and warm
As if 'twere done in rapture's mint,
And love himself had stamp'd the form!
Oh, NEA! NEA! where wert thou?
In pity fly not thus from me;
Thou art my life, my essence now,
And my soul dies of wanting thee!

A KISS A L'ANTIQUE. BEHOLD, my love, the curious gem Within this simple ring of gold; 'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them' Who liv'd in classic hours of old.

Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,

Upon her hand this gem display'd, Nor thought that time's eternal lapse Should see it grace a lovelier maid! Look, darling, what a sweet design!

The more we gaze, it charms the more: Come, closer bring that cheek to mine, And trace with me its beauties o'er. Thou see'st, it is a simple youth

By some enamour'd nymph embrac'dLook, NEA, love! and say, in sooth, Is not her hand most dearly plac'd! Upon his curled head behind

It seems in careless play to lie,' Yet presses gently, half inclin'd

To bring his lip of nectar nigh! Oh happy maid! too happy boy! The one so fond and faintly loath, The other yielding slow to joy

Oh, rare indeed, but blissful both! Imagine, love, that I am he,

And just as warm as he is chilling; Imagine, too, that thou art she,

But quite as cold as she is willing: So may we try the graceful way

In which their gentle arms are twin'd, And thus, like her, my hand I lay Upon thy wreathed hair behind: And thus I feel thee breathing sweet, As slow to mine thy head I move; And thus our lips together meet,

And thus I kiss thee-oh, my love!

• λιβανοτω εικασεν, ότι απολλύμενον ευφραίνει. Aristot. Rhetor. Lib. iii. Cap. 4. THERE's not a look, a word of thine

My soul hath e'er forgot;
Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine,
Nor giv'n thy locks one graceful twine,
Which I remember not!

There never yet a murmur fell

From that beguiling tongue,
Which did not, with a lingering spell,
Upon my charmed senses dwell,

Like something heaven had sung!
Ah! that I could, at once, forget

All, all that haunts me so—
And yet, thou witching girl!—and yet,
To die were sweeter, than to let
The lov'd remembrance go!
No; if this slighted heart must see
Its faithful pulse decay,
Oh! let it die, remembering thee,
And, like the burnt aroma, be
Consum'd in sweets away!

1 Somewhat like the symplegma of Cupid and Psyche at Florence, in which the position of Psyche's hand is finely expressive of affection. See the Museum Florentinum, Tom. ii. Tab. 43, 44. I know of very few subjects in which poetry could be more interestingly employed, than in illustrating some of the ancient statues and gems.

EPISTLE V.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. FROM BERMUDA.1

March.

"THE daylight is gone-but, before we depart,
One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
To the kindest, the dearest-oh! judge by the tear,
That I shed while I name him, how kind and how
dear!"

'Twas thus, by the shade of a calabash-tree,
With a few who could feel and remember like me,
The charm, that to sweeten my goblet I threw,
Was a tear to the past and a blessing on you!

Oh! say, do you thus, in the luminous hour
Of wine and of wit, when the heart is in flower,
And shoots from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new!
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him,
Who is lonely and sad in these vallies so fair,
And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there!

1 Pinkerton has said that "a good history and description of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the geographical library" but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is but little which the historian could amplify into importance; and, with respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to cultivate are so common in the West Indies, that they have been described by every naturalist, who has written any account of those islands.

It is often asserted by the trans-atlantic politicians, that this little colony deserves more attention from the mothercountry than it receives; and it certainly possesses advantages of situation, to which we should not be long insensible, if it were once in the hands of an enemy. I was told by a celebrated friend of Washington, at New-York, that they had formed a plan for its capture, towards the conclusion of the American War; "with the intention (as he expressed himself,) of making it a nest of hornets for the annoyanco of British trade in that part of the world." And there is no doubt, it lies so fairly in the track to the West Indies, that an enemy might with ease convert it into a very harassing impediment.

The plan of Bishop Berkeley for a college at Bermuda, where American savages might be converted and educated, though concurred in by the government of the day, was a wild and useless speculation. Mr. Hamilton, who was governor of the island some years since, proposed, if I mistake not, the establishment of a marine academy for the instruction of those children of West Indians, who might be intended for any nautical employment. This was a more rational idea, and for something of this nature the island is admirably calculated. But the plan should be much more extensive, and embrace a general system of education, which would entirely remove the alternative, in which the colonists are involved at present, of either sending their sons to England for instruction, or entrusting them to colleges in the States of America, where ideas by no means favourable to Great Britain, are very sedulously inculcated.

The women of Bermuda, though not generally handsome, have an affectionate languor in their look and manner, which is always interesting. What the French imply by their epithet aimante seems very much the character of the young Bermudian girls-that predisposition to loving, which, without being awakened by any particular object, diffuses itself through the general manner in a tone of tenderness that never fails to fascinate. The men of the island, I con fess, are not very civilized; and the old philosopher, who imagined that, after this life, men would be changed into mules, and women into turtle-doves, would find the meta Imorphosis in some degree anticipated at Bermuda.

Last night, when we came from the calabash-tree,
When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free,
The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day,
Put the magical springs of my fancy in play;
And oh!—such a vision as haunted me then
I could slumber for ages to witness again!
The many I like, and the few I adore,

The friends, who were dear and beloved before,
But never till now so beloved and dear,
At the call of my fancy surrounded me here!
Soon, soon did the flattering spell of their smile
To a paradise brighten the blest little isle;
Serener the wave, as they look'd on it, flow'd,
And warmer the rose, as they gather'd it, glow'd!
Not the vallies Heræan (though water'd by rills
Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills,'
Where the song of the shepherd, primæval and wild,
Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,)
Could display such a bloom of delight, as was given
By the magic of love to this miniature heaven!

Oh, magic of love! unembellish'd by you,
Has the garden a blush or the herbage a hue?
Or blooms there a prospect in nature or art,
Like the vista that shines through the eye to the heart?

Alas! that a vision so happy should fade!

That, when morning around me in brilliancy play'd,
The rose and the stream I had thought of at night
Should still be before me, unfadingly bright;
While the friends, who had seem'd to hang over the
stream,

And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream!

But see, through the harbour, in floating array,
The bark that must carry these pages away,2
Impatiently flutters her wings to the wind,
And will soon leave the bowers of Ariel behind!
What billows, what gales is she fated to prove,
Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love!
Yet pleasant the swell of those billows would be,
And the sound of those gales would be music to me!
Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew,
Not the silvery lapse of the summer-eve dew,
Were as sweet as the breeze, or as bright as the foam
Of the wave, that would carry your wanderer home!

LOVE AND REASON.

"Quand l'homme commence à raisonner, il cesse de sentir." J. J. Rousseau.

"TWAS in the summer-time so sweet,
When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That-who, of all the world, should meet,
One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yester-night,
While Reason talk'd about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
And on they took their way together.

1 Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first inrentor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.-See ne lively description of these mountains in Diodorus Sicuule, Lib iv. Ηραία γαρ όρη κατά την Σικελίαν εστιν, ο φασι καλλει κ. τ. λ.

2 A ship, ready to sail for England.

3 Quoted somewhere in St. Pierre's Etudes de la Nature.

The boy in many a gambol flew,
While Reason, like a Juno stalk'd,
And from her portly figure threw

A lengthen'd shadow, as she walk'd.
No wonder Love, as on they pass'd,
Should find that sunny morning chill,
For still the shadow Reason cast

Fell on the boy, and cool'd him still.
In vain he tried his wings to warm,
Or find a pathway not so dim,

For still the maid's gigantic form
Would pass between the sun and him!
"This must not be," said little Love-
"The sun was made for more than you."
So, turning through a myrtle grove,

He bid the portly nymph adieu!

Now gaily roves the laughing boy
O'er many a mead, by many a stream;
In every breeze inhaling joy,

And drinking bliss in every beam.

From all the gardens, all the bowers,

He cull'd the many sweets they shaded, And ate the fruits, and smelt the flowers, Till taste was gone and odour faded! But now the sun, in pomp of noon, Look'd blazing o'er the parched plains; Alas! the boy grew languid soon, And fever thrill'd through all his veins! The dew forsook his baby brow,

No more with vivid bloom he smil'dOh! where was tranquil Reason now, To cast her shadow o'er the child?

Beneath a green and aged palm,

His foot at length for shelter turning, He saw the nymph reclining calm, With brow as cool as his was burning! "Oh! take me to that bosom cold," In murmurs at her feet he said; And Reason op'd her garment's fold, And flung it round his fever'd head. He felt her bosom's icy touch,

And soon it lull'd his pulse to rest; For, ah! the chill was quite too much,

And Love expir'd on Reason's breast!

NAY, do not weep, my FANNY dear!
While in these arms you lie,
The world hath not a wish, a fear,
That ought to claim one precious tear
From that beloved eye!

The world!-ah, FANNY! love must shun
The path where many rove;
One bosom to recline upon,
One heart to be his only-one,
Are quite enough for love!

What can we wish, that is not here
Between your arms and mine?

Is there, on earth, a space so dear, As that within the blessed sphere Two loving arms entwine!

For me there's not a lock of jet

Along your temples curl'd, Within whose glossy, tangled net, My soul doth not, at once, forget

All, all the worthless world!

'Tis in your eyes, my sweetest love! My only worlds I see;

Let but their orbs in sunshine move, And earth below and skies above May frown or smile for me!

ASPASIA.

"Twas in the fair ASPASIA's bower,
That Love and Learning many an hour,
In dalliance met, and Learning smil'd,
With rapture on the playful child,
Who wanton stole to find his nest
Within a fold of Learning's vest!

There, as the listening statesman hung
In transport on ASPASIA's tongue,
The destinies of Athens took
Their colour from ASPASIA's look.
Oh happy time! when laws of state,
When all that rul'd the country's fate,
Its glory, quiet, or alarms,

Was plann'd between two snowy arms!

Sweet times! you could not always last→
And yet, oh! yet, you are not past;
Though we have lost the sacred mould,
In which their men were cast of old,
Woman, dear woman, still the same,
While lips are balm, and looks are flame,
While man possesses heart or eyes,
Woman's bright empire never dies!

FANNY, my love, they ne'er shall say,
That beauty's charm hath pass'd away;
No-give the universe a soul
Attun'd to woman's soft control,
And FANNY hath the charm, the skill,
To wield a universe at will!

THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS.'

TO HER LOVER.

όχι το καλος

Πυθαγόρης, οσσοι το χορον στηρίξαν έρωτος. Απόλλων περι Πλωτινκ. Oracul. Metric. a Joan. Opsop. Collecta.

Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray,
That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away?
I linger'd still, in all the murmuring rest,
The languor of a soul too richly blest!

1 "It was imagined by some of the ancients that there is an ethereal ocean above us, and that the sun and moon are

Upon my breath thy sigh yet faintly hung;
Thy name yet died in whispers o'er my tongue;
I heard thy lyre, which thou hadst left behind,
In amorous converse with the breathing wind;
Quick to my heart I press'd the shell divine,
And, with a lip yet glowing warm from thine,
I kiss'd its every chord, while every kiss
Shed o'er the chord some dewy print of bliss.
Then soft to thee I touch'd the fervid lyre,
Which told such melodies, such notes of fire
As none but chords, that drank the burning dews
Of kisses dear as ours, could e'er diffuse!
Oh love! how blissful is the bland repose,
That soothing follows upon rapture's close,
Like a soft twilight, o'er the mind to shed
Mild melting traces of the transport fled!

While thus I lay, in this voluptuous calm,
A drowsy languor steep'd my eyes in balm,
Upon my lap the lyre in murmurs fell,
While, faintly wandering o'er its silver shell,
My fingers soon their own sweet requiem play'd,
And slept in music which themselves had made!
Then, then, my THEON, what a heavenly dream'
I saw two spirits, on the lunar beam,
Two winged boys, descending from above,
And gliding to my bower with looks of love,
Like the young genii, who repose their wings
All day in Amatha's luxurious springs,'
And rise at midnight, from the tepid rill
To cool their plumes upon some moon-light hill!

Soft o'er my brow, which kindled with their sighs,
Awhile they play'd; then gliding through my eyes,
(Where the bright babies, for a moment, hung,
Like those thy lip hath kiss'd, thy lyre hath sung,)
To that dim mansion of my breast they stole,
Where, wreath'd in blisses lay my captive soul.
Swift at their touch dissolv'd the ties that clung
So sweetly round her, and aloft she sprung!
Exulting guides, the little genii flew
Through paths of light, refresh'd with starry dew,
And fann'd by airs of that ambrosial breath,
On which the free soul banquets after death!

Thou know'st, my love, beyond our clouded skies, As bards have dream'd, the spirits' kingdom lies. Through that fair clime a sea of ether rolls? Gemm'd with bright islands, where the hallow'd souls,

1 Eunapius, in his life of Jambhchus, tells us of two beautiful little spirits or loves, which Jamblichus raised by enchantment from the warm springs at Gadara; "dicena astantibus (says the author of the Dii Fatidici, p. 160) illos esse loci Genios:" which words however are not in Eunapius.

I find from Cellarius, that Amatha, in the neighbourhood of Gardara, was also celebrated for its warm springs, and I have preferred it as a more poetical name than Gadara. Cellarius quotes Hieronymus. "Est et alia villa in vicinia Gadaræ nomine Amatha, ubi calidæ aquæ erumpunt."Geograph. Antiq. Lib. iii. cap. 13.

2 This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or "waters above the firmament," was one of the many physical errors in which the early fathers bewildered themselves. Le P. Baltus, in his "Defense des saints Pères accusés de Platonisme," taking it for granted that the ancients were more correct in their notions, (which by no means appears from what I have