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 many of those illusive ideas with respect to the purity of the government, and the primitive happiness of the people, which I had early imbibed in my native country, where, unfortunately, discontent at home enhances every distant temptation, and the Western world has long been looked to as a retreat from real or imaginary oppression, as the elysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their visions realized, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and repose. 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 nature;' and there certainly is a close approximation to savage life, not only in the liberty which they enjoy, 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 from that simplicity of character, that honest ignorance of the gloss of refinement, which may be looked for in a new and inexperienced people. But 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 apprised 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, EPISTLES, ODES, AND OTHER POEMS. EPISTLE I. TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT. SWEET moon! if like Crotona's sage,1 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 Oh, Strangford! when we parted last, When, mingling lore and laugh together, And yet 'twas time-in youthful days, The spring will dry, the heart will freeze! Pythagoras, who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the moon by the means of a magic mirror. See Bayle, art. Pythag. And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope, When flying from the Phrygian shore, Even now delusive hope will steal 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 And see the looks, the melting smiles, And see the blushing cheek it shades, Dear Strangford at this hour, perhaps, Alluding to these animated lines in the 44th It is said by some to be as high as the peak of Carmen of this poet (Catullus): Teneriffe. 3 I believe it is Guthrie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores are much addicted to gallantry. This is an assertion in which even Guthrie may be credited. These islands belong to the Portuguese. A BEAM of tranquillity smiled in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no more, Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour, Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead, I thought of the days, when to pleasure alone I felt how the pure intellectual fire How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire, And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame, 1 From Captain 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, I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky Shed light on the soul that was darkened before!' THE TELL-TALE LYRE. I'VE heard, there was in ancient days 'Twas played on by the gentlest sighs, As ear had never drunk till then! Not harmony's serenest touch So stilly could the notes prolong, If sad the heart, whose murmuring air Or if the sigh, serene and light, Was but the breath of fancied woes, And oh when lovers talked alone, And echoed notes that Heaven might hear! There was a nymph, who long had loved, 'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole It chanced that in the fairy bower Where they had found their sweetest shed, |