.... Tale iter omne cave. Propert. lib. iv. eleg. 8. I PRAY you, let us roam no more Along that wild and lonely shore, Where late we thoughtless strayed; 'Twas not for us, whom Heaven intends To be no more than simple friends, That little bay where, winding in Heard you the wish I dared to name To murmur on that luckless night, When passion broke the bonds of shame, And love grew madness in your sight? Divinely through the graceful dance, You seemed to float in silent song, Bending to earth that beamy glance, As if to light your steps along! Oh how could others dare to touch That hallowed form with hand so free, When but to look was bliss too much, Too rare for all but Heaven and me! With smiling eyes, that little thought How fatal were the beams they threw, My trembling hands you lightly caught, And round me, like a spirit, flew. Heedless of all, I wildly turned, My soul forgot-nor, oh! condemn, That when such eyes before me burned, My soul forgot all eyes but them! I dared to speak in sobs of bliss, Rapture of every thought bereft me, I would have clasped you-oh, even this! But, with a bound, you blushing left me. Forget, forget that night's offence; Forgive it, if, alas! you can; 'Twas love, 'twas passion-soul and sense "Twas all the best and worst of man! That moment did the mingled eyes Of heaven and earth my madness view, I should have seen, through earth and skies, But you alone, but only you! Did not a frown from you reprove, Myriads of eyes to me were none; I should have-oh, my only love! My life! what should I not have done? A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY. I JUST had turned the classic page, And traced that happy period over, When love could warm the proudest sage, And wisdom grace the tenderest Before I laid me down to sleep, 1 Gassendi thinks that the gardens which Pausanias mentions in his first book were those of Epicurus; and Stuart says, in his Antiquities of Athens: Near this convent (the convent of Hagios Assomatos) is the place called at present Kepoi, or the Gardens; and Ampelos Kepos, or And now the downy hand of rest To polish Virtue's native brightness, Just as the beak of playful doves Can give to pearls a smoother whiteness !2 'Twas one of those delicious nights So common in the climes of Greece, When day withdraws but half its lights, And all is moonshine, balm, and peace! And thou wert there, my own beloved! And dearly by thy side I roved Through many a temple's reverend gloom, And many a bower's seductive bloom, Where beauty blushed and wisdom taught, Where lovers sighed and sages thought, Where hearts might feel or heads dis Where all that bard has ever dreamed | While others, waving arms of snow Of love or luxury bloomed around! And scented and illumed the bowers, to roam When it has left this world behind, And gone to seek its heavenly home! Through mild and shadowy light But now, methought, we stole along Through halls of more voluptuous glory Than ever lived in Teian song, Or wantened in Milesian story!1 The onyx shone beneath their feet !3 The Milesiacs, or Milesian fables, had their origin in Miletus, a luxurious town of Ionia. Aristides was the most celebrated author of these licentious fictions. See Plutarch (in Crasso), who calls them ακολαστα βιβλια. 2 'Some of the Cretan wines, which Athenæus calls ovos aveoσuias, from their fragrancy resembling that of the finest flowers.'-Barry on Wines, chap. vii. 3 It appears that, in very splendid mansions, the floor or pavement was frequently of onyx. Thus Martial: Calcatusque tuo sub pede lucet onyx.'-Epig. 50, lib. xii. 4 Bracelets of this shape were a favourite ornament among the women of antiquity. Oi emiкаρmiо οφεις και αἱ χρυσαι πεδαι Θαιδος και Αρισταγόρας και Λαίδος φαρμακα. Philostrat. epis. xl. Lucian, too, tells of the Spaxioioi Spaкovтes. Entwined by snakes of burnished gold, 4 And showing limbs, as loth to show. Through many a thin Tarentiau foll Glided along the festal ring With vases, all respiring spring, | Where roses lay, in languor breathing And the young bee grape, round them wreathing, Hung on their blushes warm and meek, Oh, Nea! why did morning break The spell that so divinely bound me? Why did I wake? how could I wake, With thee my own and Heaven around me ! See his Amores, where he describes the dressingroom of a Grecian lady, and we find the silver vase,' the rouge, the tooth-powder, and all the mystic order of a modern toilet. 5 The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. See the commentators on the words 'still-vexed Bermoothes,' in the Tempest.-I wonder it did not occur to some of those all-reading gentlemen, that possibly the discoverer of this island of hogs and devils' might have been no less a personage than the great John Bermudez, who about the same period (the beginning of the sixteenth century) was sent Patriarch of the Latin Church to Ethiopia, and has left us most wonderful stories of the Amazons and the Griffins which he encountered Travels of the Jesuits, vol. i. I am afraid, however, it would take the Patriarch rather too much out of his way. If I were yonder wave, my dear, My land of bliss, my fairy ground! The sacred gem my arms embraced! 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 strean. 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! Johnson does not think that Waller was ever at Bermuda; but the Account of the European Settlements in America affirms it confidently (vol. ii). I mention this work, however, less for 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 buro, Thy blush on every floweret 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! THE SNOW SPIRIT. No, ne'er did the wave in its clement 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, its authority than for the pleasure I feel in quoting an unacknowledged production of the great Edmund Burke. meet I knew not what, but something sweet! Blest be the little pilot dove! What spell, what magic raised her there? The broad banana's green embrace grace; One little beam alone could win Her eyelid's black and silken fringe And o'er her lip's reflecting dew The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of Such as, declining dim and faint, the West Indies. The lamp of some beloved saint |