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Oh! I have thought, and thinking, sigh'd How like to thee, thou restless tide! May be the lot, the life of him, Who roams along thy water's brim! Through what alternate shades of woe, And flowers of joy my path may go! How many a humble still retreat May rise to court my weary feet, While still pursuing, still unblest, I wander on, nor dare to rest ! But, urgent as the doom that calls Thy water to its destin'd falls, I see the world's bewildering force Hurry my heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the last current cease to run! Oh, may my falls be bright as thine ! May Heaven's forgiving rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft, as now it hangs o'er thee!

Think'st thou, when Julia's lip and breast

Inspir'd my youthful tongue,
I coldly spoke of lips unprest,

Nor felt the heaven I sung ?
No, no, the spell, that warr'd so long,

Was still my Julia's kiss,
And still the girl was paid, in song,

What she had givin in bliss !
Then beam one burning smile on me,

And I will sing those eyes ;
Let me but feel a breath from thee,

And I will praise thy sighs.
That rosy mouth alone can bring

What makes the bard divineOh, Lady! how my lip would sing,

If once 'twere prest to thine!


Qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla....

Ovid. Metam. Lib. iii. y. 227

CLORIS AND FANNY. Cloris! if I were Persia's king,

I'd make my graceful queen of thee : While Fanny, wild and artless thing,

Should but my humble handmaid be. There is but one objection in it

That, verily, I'm much afraid
I should, in some unlucky minute,

Forsake the mistress for the maid !

With woman's form and woman's tricks
So much of man you seem to mix,

One knows not where to take you;
I pray you, if 'tis not too far,
Go, ask of Nature which you are,

Or what she meant to make you.
Yet stay-you need not take the pains-
With neither beauty, youth, nor brains

For man or maid's desiring:
Pert as female, fool as male,
As boy too green, as girl too stale-

The thing is not worth inquiring !

Now the vapour, hot and damp,
Shed by day's expiring lamp,
Through the misty ether spreads
Every ill the white man dreads ;
Fiery fever's thirsty thrill,
Fitful ague's shivering chill!
Hark! I hear the traveller's song,
As he winds the woods along,
Christian ! 'tis the song of fear;
Wolves are round thee, night is near,
And the wild thou dar'st to roam-
Oh! 'twas once the Indian's home!?
Hither, sprites, who love to harm,
Wheresoe'er you work your charm,
By the creeks, or by the brakes,
Where the pale witch feeds her snakes,
And the cayman' loves to creep,
Torpid, to his wintry sleep :
Where the bird of carrion flits,

And the shuddering murderer sits,* 1 The idea of this poem occurred to me in passing through the very dreary wilderness between Batavia, a new settlement in the midst of the woods, and the little village of

Buffalo upon Lake Erie. This is the most fatiguing part of the route, in travelling through the Genesee country to Niagara.

2* The Five Confederated Nations (of Indians) were settled along the banks of the Susquehanna and the adjacent country, until the year 1779, when General Sullivan, with an army of 4000 men, drove them from their country to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on salted provisions, to which they were unaccustomed, great numbers of them died. Two hundred of them, it is said, were buried in one grave, where they had eucamped."- Morse's American Geography.

3 The alligator, who is supposed to lie in a torpid state all the winter, in the bank of some creek or pond, having pre viously swallowed a large number of pine-knots, which are his only sustenance during the time.

4 This was the mode of punishment for murder (as Father Charlevoix tells us) among tho Ilurons. “They laid the dead body upon poles at the top of a cabin, and the mur derer was obliged to remain several days together, and to receive all that dropped from the carcass, not only on him. self but on his food."



Sine vencre friget Apollo.

Ægid. Menagius.

How can I sing of fragrant sighs

I ne'er have felt from thee? How can I sing of smiling eyes,

That ne'er have smil'd on me? The heart, 'tis true, may fancy much,

But, oh! 'tis cold and seemingOne moment's real, rapturous touch

Is worth an age of dreaming !

Did ever lip's ambrosial air

Such perfume o'er thy altars shed ?

One maid there was, who round her lyre

The mystic myrtle wildly wreath'd-
But all her sighs were sighs of fire,

The myrıle wither'd as she breath'd'

Oh! you that love's celestial dream,

In all its purity, would know,
Let not the senses' ardent beam,

Too strongly through the vision glow !

Love sweetest lies, conceal'd in night,

The night where Heaven has bid him lie; Oh! shed not there unhallowed light,

Or PSYCHE knows, the boy will fly!!

Lone beneath a roof of blood,
While upon his poison'd food,
From the corpse of him he slew
Drops the chill and gory dew!
Hither bend you, turn you hither
Eyes that blast and wings that wither!
Cross the wandering Christian's way,
Lead him, ere the glimpse of day,
Many a mile of madd'ning error
Through the maze of night and terror,
Till the morn behold him lying
O'er the damp earth, pale and dying !
Mock him, when his eager sight
Seeks the cordial cottage-light;
Gleam then, like the lightning-bug,
Tempt him to the den that's dug
For the foul and famish'd brood
Of the she-wolf, gaunt for blood !
Or, unto the dangerous pass
O'er the deep and dark morass,
Where the trembling Indian brings
Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings,
Tributes, to be hung in air
To the Fiend presiding there !!
Then, when night's long labour past,
Wilder'd, faint, he falls at last,
Sinking where the causeway's edge
Moulders in the slimy sedge,
There let every noxious thing
Trail its filth and fix its sting ;
Let the bull-toad taint him over,
Round him let musquitoes hover,
In his ears and eye-balls tingling,
With his blood their poison mingling,
Till, beneath the solar fires,
Rankling all, the wretch expires !

Dear Psyche! many a charmed hour,

Through many a wild and magic waste,
To the fair fount and blissful bower

Thy mazy foot my soul hath trac'd !

Where'er thy joys are number'd now,

Beneath whatever shades of rest,
The Genius of the starry brow3

Hath chain'd thee to thy Cupid's breast ;

Whether above the horizon dim,

Along whose verge our spirits stray, (Half sunk within the shadowy brim,

Half brighten’d by the eternal ray.)

Thou risest to a cloudless pole!

Or, lingering here, dost love to mark
The twilight walk of many a soul

Through sunny good and evil dark;

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Still be the song to Psyche dear,


whose dulcet tide was given

To keep her name as fadeless here,

As nectar keeps her soul in heaven!

1802. Tell me the witching tale again,

1 Seo the story in Apuleius. With respect to this beautiful For never has my heart or ear

allegory of Love and Psyche, there is an ingenious idea

suggested by the senator Buonarotti, in bis · Össervazioni Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,

sopra alcuni frammenti di vasi' antichi." He thinks the So pure to feel, so sweet to bear!

fable is taken from some very occult mysteries, which had long been celebrated in honour of Love ; and he accounts,

upon this supposition, for the silence of the more ancient Say, Love! in all thy spring of fame,

authors upon the subject, as it was not till towards the deWhen the high heaven itself was thixe; cline of pagan superstition, that writers could venture to When piety confess'd the flame,

reveal or discuss such ceremonies; accordingly, he observes,

we find Lucian and Plutarch treating, without reserve, of And even thy errors were divine !

the Dea Syria, and Isis and Osiris; and Apuleius, who has

given us the story of Cupid and Psyche, has also detailed Did ever Muse's hand, so fair

some of the mysteries of Isis. See the Giornale di Litteratı

d'Italia, tom. xxvii, articol. 1. See also the Observations A glory round thy temple spread ?

upon the ancient Gems in the Aluseum Florentinum, vol.

" I cannot avoid remarking here an error into which the 1“We find also collars of porcelain, tobacco, ears of French Encyclopédistes have been led M. Spon, in their maize, skins, etc. by the side of difficult and dangerous ways, article Psyche.' They say, "Petron fait un récit de la on rocks, or by the sile of the fulls; and these are so many pompe nuptiale de ces deux amans (Amour et Psyché.) offerings made to the spirits which preside in these places. Deja, dit-il," etc. elc. The Psyche of Petronius, however, See Charleroix's Letter on the Tradilions and the Religion is a servani-maid, and the marriage which he describes is of the Savages of Canada.

that of the young Pannychis. See Spon's Recherches Father Hennepin tou mentions this ceremony; he also Curieuses, etc. Dissertat. 5. says, " Wo took notice of one barbarian, who made a kind 2 Allusions to Mrs. T-ghe's poem. of sacriace upon an oak at the Cascade of St. Antony of 3 Constancy. Padua, upon the river Mississippi." See Hennepin's Voyage 4 By this image the Platonists expressed the middle stala into North America.

of the soul between sensible and intellectual existence.

Mind, mind alone, without whose quickening ray IMPROMPTU, UPON LEAVING SOME

The world's a wilderness, and man but clay,

Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose,

Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows ! dulces cornitum valete cætus-Catullus.

Take Christians, Mohawks, Democrats and all

From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall,
No, never shall my soul forget

From man the savage, whether slav'd or free,
The friends I found so cordial-hearted;

To man the civiliz'd, less tame than he !
Dear shall be the day we met,

"Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife
And dear shall be the night we parted! Betwixt half-polish'd and half-barbarous life;
Oh ! if regrets, however sweet,

Where every ill the ancient world can brew
Must with the lapse of time decay,

Is mix'd with every grossness of the few;
Yet still, when thus in mirth you meet,

Where all corrupts though little can entice,
Fill high to him that's far away!

And nothing's known of luxury, but vice!
Long be the fame of memory found,

Is this the region then, is this the clime
Alive-when with your social glass,

For golden fancy? for those dreams sublime,
Let that be still the magic round,

Which all their miracles of light reveal
O'er which oblivion dares not pass !

To heads that meditate and hearts that feel?
No, no—the muse of inspiration plays
O'er every scene; she walks the forest-maze,

And climbs the mountain ; every blooming spot

Burns with her step, yei man regards it not !

She whispers round, her words are in the air,
But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there,

Without one breath of soul, divinely strong,
Neo venit ad duros musa vocata getas.

Ovid er Ponto, Lib. i. ep. 5.


of heart to thaw them into song!

Yet, yet forgive me, oh, you sacred few!

Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew, Thou oft hast told me of the fairy hours Whom, known and lov'd throngh many a social eve Thy heart has number'd in those classic bowers, 'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave!! Where fancy sees the ghost of ancient wit

Less dearly welcome were the lines of yore 'Mid cowls and cardinals profanely flit,

The exile saw upon the sandy shore, And pagan spirits, by the pope unlaid,

When his lone heart but faintly hop'd to find Haunt every stream and sing through every shade! One print of man, one blessed stamp of mind ! There still the bard, who, (if his numbers be Less dearly welcome than the liberal zeal, His tongue's light echo,) must have talk'd like thee, The strength to reason and the warmth to feel, The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught The manly polish and the illumin'd taste, Those playful, sunshine holidays of thought Which, 'mid the melancholy, heartless waste In which the basking soul reclines and glows, My foot has wander'd, oh you sacred few! Warm without toil and brilliant in repose.

I found by Delaware's green banks with you. 'There still he roves, and laughing loves to see Long may you hate the Gallic dross that runs How modern monks with ancient rakes agree ; O'er your fair country and corrupts its sons ; How mitres hang, where ivy wreaths might twine, Long love the arts, the glories which adorn And heathen Massic 's damn'd for stronger wine! Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born There too are all those wandering souls of song, Oh! if America can yet be great, With whom thy spirit hath commun'd so long, If, neither chain'd by choice, nor damn'd by fate Whose rarest gems are, every instant, hung By memory's magic on thy sparkling tongue.

sippi. “I believe this is the finest confluence in the world. But here, alas ! by Erie's stormy lake,

The two rivers are much of the same breadth, each abuut As far from thee, my lonely course I take,

half a league ; but the Missouri is by far the most rapid, and

seems to enter the Mississippi like a conqueror, through So bright remembrance o'er the fancy plays,

which it oarries its white waves to the opposite shore wilde No classic dream, no star of other days

out mixing them: afterwards it gives its colour to the MisHas left that visionary glory here,

sissippi, which it never loses again, but carries quite down

to the sea."- Leller xxvii. That relic of its light, so soft, so dear,

1 In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at Phila Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene, delphia, I passed the few agreeable moments which my long The humblest shed, where genius once has been!

through the States afforded me. Mr. Dennie has succeeded

in diffusing through this elegant little circle that love for All that creation's varying mass assumes

good literature and sound politics, which he feels so zeal

ously himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms ;

of his countrymen. They will not, I trust, accuse me of Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow, illiberality for the picture which I have given of the ignit Bright lakes expand, and conquering' rivers flow; rance and corruption that surround them. If I did not hate,

as I ought, the rabble to which they are opposed, I could

not valuo, as I do, the wpirit with which they dely it; and 1 'This ejuliet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking de in learning from them what Americans can be, I but see scriptiop of the confluence of the Missouri with the Miris with the more indication whint Amerirans are

In lines of fire such heavenly lore, That man should read them and adore !

To the mob-mania which imbrues her now,
She yet can raise the bright but temperate brow
Of single majesty, can grandly place
An empire's pillar upon freedorn's base,
Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove
For the fair capital that flowers above ?-
If yet, releas'd from all that vulgar throng,
So vain of dulness and so pleas'd with wrong,
Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide
Folly in froth, and barrenness in pride,
She yet can rise, can wreath the attic charms
Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms,
And see her poets flash the fires of song,
To light her warriors' thunderbolts along !
It is to you, to souls that favouring Heaven
Has made like yours, the glorious task is given-
Oh, but for such, Columbia's days were done;
Rank without ripeness, quicken'd without sun,
Crude at the surface, rotten at the core,
Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er !

Yet have I known a gentle maid
Whose early charms were just array'd
In nature's loveliness like thine,
And wore that clear, celestial sign,
Which seems to mark the brow that's fair
For Destiny's peculiar care!
Whose bosom too was once a zone,
Where the bright gem of virtue shone
Whose eyes were talismans of fire
Against the spell of man's desire !
Yet, hapless girl, in one sad hour,
Her charms have shed their radiant flower
The gem has been beguil'd away;
Her eyes have lost their chastening ray;
The simple fear, the guiltless shame,
The smiles that from reflection came,
All, all have fled, and left her mind
A faded monument behind !
Like some wave-beaten, mouldering stone
To memory rais'd by hands unknown,
Which, many a wintry hour, has stood,
Beside the ford of Tyra's flood,
To tell the traveller, as he cross'd,
That there some loved friend was lost!
Oh! 'twas a sight I wept to see-
Heaven keep the lost-one's fate from thee!

Believe me, SPENCER, while I wing'd the hours Where Schuylkill undulates through banks of flow

ers, Though few the days, the happy evenings few, So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, That my full soul forgot its wish to roam, And rested there, as in a dream of home! And looks I met, like looks I lov'd before, And voices too, which, as they trembled o'er The chord of memory, found full many a tone Of kindness there in concord with their own! Oh! we had nights of that communion free, That flush of heart, which I have known with thee So oft, so warmly ; nights of mirth and mind, Of whims that taught, and follies that refin'd; When shall we both renew them ? when testor'd To the pure feast and intellectual board, Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine Those whims that teach, those follies that refine ? Even now, as wandering upon Erie's shore, I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar, I sigh for England-oh! these weary feet Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet !



Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now,

While yet my soul is something free;
While yet those dangerous eyes allow

One moment's thought to stray from thee! Oh! thou art every instant dearer

Every chance that brings me nigh thee, Brings my ruin nearer, nearer:

I am lost, unless I fly thee!
Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me,

Wish me not so soon to fall,
Duties, fame, and hopes await me,

Oh! that eye would blast them all!
Yes, yes, it would-for thou'rt as cold

As ever yet allur'd or sway'd,
And would'st, without a sigh, behold

The ruin which thyself had made!
Yet-could I think that, truly fond,

That eye but once would smile on me, Good Heaven ! how much, how far beyond

Fame, duty, hope, that smile would be! Oh! but to win it, night and day,

Inglorious at thy feet reclin'd,
I'd sigh my dreams of fame away,

The world for thee forgot, resign'd!
But no, no, no-farewell—we part,

Never to meet, no, never, never Oh, woman! what a mind and heart

Thy coldness has undone for ever!


TOOh! fair as Heaven and chaste as light! Did Nature mould thee all so bright, That thou shouldst ever learn to weep O'er languid Virtue's fatal sleep, O’er shame extinguish’d, honour fled, Peace lost, heart wither'd, feeling dead ? No, no-a star was born with thee, Which sheds eternal purity! Thou hast, within those sainted eyes, So fair a transcript of the skies,


Cannot, in all his course, behold

Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold!

Tell her, he comes, in blissful pride,

His lip yet sparkling with the tide,
Cum digno digna.-Sulpicia.

That mantles in Olympian bowls,

The nectar of eternal souls ! " Who is the maid, with golden hair,

For her, for her he quits the skies, With eyes of fire and feet of air,

And to her kiss from nectar flies. Whose harp around my altar swells

Oh! he would hide his wreath of rays, The sweetest of a thousand shells ?"

And leave the world to pine for days, 'Twas thus the deity, who treads

Might he but pass the hours of shade, The arch of heaven, and grandly sheds

Imbosom'd by his Delphic maidDay froin his eye-lids !—thus he spoke,

She, more than earthly woman blest, As through my cell his glories broke.

He, more than god on woman's breast !" “Who is the maid, with golden hair,

There is a cave beneath the steep,' With eyes of fire and feet of air,

Where living rills of crystal weep Whose harp around my altar swells,

O'er herbage of the loveliest hue The sweetest of a thousand shells ?"

That ever spring begem'd with dew:

There oft the green bank's glossy tint Aphelia is the Delphic fair,?

Is brighten'd by the amorous print With eyes of fire and golden hair,

of many a faun and naiad's form, Aphelia's are the airy feet,

That still upon the dew is warm, And hers the harp divinely sweet ;

When virgins come, at peep of day, For foot so light has never trod

To kiss the sod where lovers lay! The laureld caverns of the god,

There, there,” the god, impassion'd, said, Nor harp so soft has ever given

“Soon as the twilight tinge is fled, A strain to earth or sigh to heaven.

And the dim orb of lunar souls? “Then tell the virgin to unfold,

Along its shadowy path-way rolls

There shall we find our bridal bed, In looser pomp, her locks of gold,

And ne'er did rosy rapture spread, And bid those eyes with fonder fire

Not even in Jove, voluptuous bowers,
Be kindled for a god's desire ;4

A bridal bed so blest as ours !"
Since He, who lights the path of years-
Even from the fount of morning's tears,

“ Tell the imperial God, who reigns, To where his sitting splendours burn

Sublime in oriental fanes, Upon the western sea-maid's urn

Whose towering turrets paint their pride

Upon Euphrates' pregnant tide ;3 1 This poem requires a little explanation. It is well Tell him, when to his midnight loves kr.Jwn tha, in the ancient temples, whenever a reverend

In mystic majesty he moves, priest, like the supposed author of the invitation before us, was inspired with a tender inclination towards any fair visitor of the shrine, and, at the saine time, felt a diffidence

1 The Corycian Cave, which Pausanias mentions. The in his own powers of persuasion, he had but to proclaim inhabitants of Parnassus beld it sacred to the Corycian that the God himself was enamoured of her, and had signi- nymphs, who were children of the river Plistus. fied his divine will that she should sleep in the interior of

2 See a preceding note, page 119. It should seem that the temple. Many a pious husband connived at this divine lunar spirits were of a purer order than spirits in general, as assignation, and even declared himself proud of the selec- Pythagoras was said by his followers to have descended from tion, with which his family had been distinguished by the the regions of the moon. The heresiarch Manes too imadeity. In the temple of Jupiter Belus, there was a splendid gined that the sun and moon are the residence of Christ, bed for these occasions. In Egyptian Thebes the same and that the ascension was nothing more than his flight to mockery was practised, and at the oracle of Patara in Ly- those orbs. cia, the priestess never could prophesy lill ao interview with

3 The temple of Jupiter Belus at Babylon, which conthe deity was allowed her. "The story which we read in sisted of several chapels and towers. "In the last tower Josephus (Lib. xviii. cap. 3.) of the Roman matron Paulina, (says Herodotus) is a large chapel, in which there lies a bed, whom the priests of Isis, for a bribe, betrayed in this mamer very splendidly ornamented, and beside it a table of gold; t Mundus, is a singular instance of the impudent excess to but there is no statue in the place. No man is allowed to which credulity suffered these impostures to be carried. sleep here, but the apartment is appropriated to a female, . This story has been put into the form of a little novel, under whom, if we believe the Chaldean priests, the deity selects the name of "La Pudicitia Schernita," by the licentious from the women of the country, as his favourite."-Lib. i and unfortunate Pallavicino, See his Opere Scelte, tom. i. I have made my priest here prefer a cave to the temple. The poem now before the reader, and a few more in the

2 In the 9th Pythic of Pindar, where Apollo, in the same present collection, are taken from a work, which I rather manner, requires of Chiron some information respecting the prematurely announced to the public, and which, perhaps very fair Cyreve, the Centaur, in obeying, very gravely apolo-luckily for myself, was interrupted by my voyage to Amerigizes for teiling the god what his omniscience must know so ca. The following fragments from the same work describe perfectly already:

the effect of one of these invitations of Apollo upon the Ει δε γε κρη και παρ σοφον αντιφερεξαι

mind of a young enthusiastic girl:-Epow'

Delphi heard her shrine proclaim, 3 Αλλ' τις δαφναδη γυαλα βησομαι ταδε. Εuripid. In oracles, the guilty flame. Ion. v. 76.

Apollo lov'd my youthful charms, 4 Ne deve partorir ammiratione ch' egli si pregiasse di Apollo woo'd me to his arms! auver una Deità concorrente nel possesso della moglie ; Suro, sure when man so oft allows mentre, anche, nei nostri secoli, non ostante così rigorose Religion's wreath to blind his brows, egge d'onore, trovasi chi s'ascrive à gloria il veder la mo- Weak wondering woman must believe, glio honorata da gli amplessi di un Principe.- Pallavicino. Where pride and zeal at once deceive.

cap. 181.

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