Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade; And, while the foliage interposing played, Lending the scene an ever-changing grace, Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,1 And dream of temples, till her kindling torch Lighted me back to all the glorious days Of Attic genius; and I seemed to gaze On marble, from the rich Pentelic mount, Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount. Then thought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all The spirit race that come at poet's call, Delicate Ariel! who, in brighter hours, Lived on the perfume of these honied bowers, In velvet buds, at evening, loved to lie, And win with music every rose's sigh. Though weak the magic of my humble strain To charm your spirit from its orb again, Yet, oh, for her, beneath whose smile I sing, For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing Were dimmed or ruffled by a wintry sky. Could smooth its feather and relume its dye,) Descend a moment from your starry sphere, And, if the lime-tree grove that once was dear, The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill, 1 This is an illusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. In the short but beautiful twilight of their spring evenings, the white cottages, scattered over the isl ands, and but partially seen through the trees that surround them, assume often the appearance of little Grecian temples: and a vivid fancy may embellish the poor fisherman's hut with columns such as the pencil of a Claude might imitate. I had one favorite object of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me well and warmly, but I could never turn his house into a Grecian temple again. The sparkling grotto can delight you still, Oh cull their choicest tints, their softest light, Weave all these spells into one dream of night, And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies, Shed the warm picture o'er her mental eyes; Take for the task her own creative spells, And brightly show what song but faintly tells. TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ. OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.2 FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. κείνη δ' ήνεμόεσσα καὶ ἄτροπος οἷα θ' αλίπληξι αἰθυίης καὶ μᾶλλον ἐπίδρομος ήέπερ ἵπποις, πόντῳ ἐνεστήρικται. CALLIMACH. Hymn, in Del. v. 11. OH, what a sea of storm we 've past! High mountain waves and foamy show ers, And battling winds whose savage blast But ill agrees with one whose hours Have past in old Anacreon's bowers, Yet think not poesy's bright charm Forsook me in this rude alarm: 3. When close they reefed the timid sail, 2 This gentleman is attached to the British consulate at Norfolk. His talents are worthy of a much higher sphere; but the excellent disposi tions of the family with whom he resides, and the cordial repose he enjoys amongst some of the kindest hearts in the world, should be almost enough to atone to him for the worst caprices of fortune. The consul himself, Colonel Hamilton, is one among the very few instances of a man, ardently loyal to his king, and yet beloved by the Americans. His house is the very temple of hospitality, and I sincerely pity the heart of that stranger who, warm from the welcome of such a board, could sit down to write a libel on his host, in the true spirit of a modern philosophist. See the Travels of the Duke de la Rouchefoucault. Liancourt, vol. ii. 3 We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, during three of which we were forced to lay-to in a gale of wind. The Driver sloop of war, in which I went, was built at Bermuda of cedar, and is accounted an excellent sea-boat. She was then commanded by my very regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed aboard the Lilly in an action with a French privateer. Poor Compton! he fell a victim to the strange impolicy of allowing such a miserable thing as the Lilly to remain in the service so small, crank, and unmanageable, that a well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her. When, every plank complaining loud, We labored in the midnight gale, And even our haughty main-mast bowed, Even then, in that unlovely hour, And, midst the war of waves and wind, The casket where my memory lays Which time has saved from ancient Take one of these, to Lais sung, Sweet 1 is your kiss, my Lais dear, Sadly you lean your head to mine, Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet. -go, false to heaven and me! Your very tears are treachery. 1 This epigram is by Paul the Silentiary, and may be found in the Analecta of Brunck, vol. iii. P. 72. As the reading there is somewhat different from what I have followed in this translation, I shall give it as I had it in my memory at the time, and as it is in Heinsius, who, I believe, first produced the epigram. See his "Poemata. ἡδὺ μέν ἐστι φίλημα τὸ Λαιδός· ἡδὺ δὲ αὐτῶν ἠπιοδινητῶν δάκρυ χέεις βλεφάρων, καὶ πολὺ κιχλίζουσα σοβεῖς εὐβόστρυχον αἴγλην, ἡμέτερα κεφαλὴν δηρὸν ἐρεισαμένη. μυρομένην δ' ἐφίλησα· τὰ δ' ὡς δροσερῆς ἀπὸ πηγῆς, δάκρυα μιγνυμένων πίπτε κατὰ στομάτων· εἶπε δ ̓ ἀνειρομένῳ, τίνος ούνεκα δάκρυα λείβεις; δείδια μή με λιπῇς· ἐστε γὰρ ὁρκαπάται. SUCH, while in air I floating hung, How sweetly after all our ills, Serenely o'er its fragrant hills; Could you but view the scenery fair, That now beneath my window lies, You'd think, that nature lavished there Her purest wave, her softest skies, To make a heaven for love to sigh in, For bards to live and saints to die in. Close to my wooded bank below, In glassy calm the waters sleep, And to the sunbeam proudly show The coral rocks they love to steep.2 The fainting breeze of morning fails; The drowsy boat moves slowly past, And I can almost touch its sails As loose they flap around the mast. The noontide sun a splendor pours That lights up all these leafy shores; While his own heaven, its clouds and beams, So pictured in the waters lie, That each small bark, in passing, seems To float along a burning sky. Oh for the pinnace lent to thee, Blest dreamer, who, in vision bright, Didst sail o'er heaven's solar sea And touch at all its isles of light. 2 The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks are seen beneath to a very great depth; and, as we entered the harbor, they appeared to us so near the surface that it seemed impossible we should not strike on them. There is no necessity, of course, for heaving the lead; and the negro pilot, looking down at the rocks from the bow of the ship, takes her through this diffcult navigation, with a skill and confidence which seem to astonish some of the oldest sailors. 3 In Kircher's "Ecstatic Journey to Heaven," Cosmiel, the genius of the world, gives Theodidactus a boat of asbestos, with which he embarks into the regions of the sun. "Vides (says Cos miel) hanc asbestinam naviculam commoditati tuæ præparatam. Itinerar." I. Dial. i. παρ. 5. This work of Kircher abounds with strange fancies. " 1 When the Genius of the world and his fellow-traveller arrive at the planet Venus, they find an island of loveliness, full of odors and intelligences, where angels preside, who shed the cosmetic influence of this planet over the earth; such beis og, according to astrologers, the "vis influxiva" of Venus. When they are in this part of the heavens, a casuistical question occurs to Theodidactus, and he asks," Whether baptism may be performed with the waters of Venus? -"an aquis globi Veneris baptismus institui possit?" to which the Genius answers, tainly." "Cer LINES, WRITTEN IN A STORM THAT sky of clouds is not the sky Of her he loves The swell of yonder foaming billow Yet do I feel more tranquil far Than when, in passion's young emotion, Oh! there's a holy calm profound 'T is as a solemn voice from heaven, 'T is true, it talks of danger nigh, Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow In the cold deep, Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow No more shall wake the heart or eye, But all must sleep. |