ΤΟ THE FLYING FISH.' WHEN I have seen thy snow-white wing But, when I see that wing, so bright, Grow languid with a moment's flight, Attempt the paths of air in vain, And sink into the waves again; Alas! the flattering pride is o'er; Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar, But erring man must blush to think, Like thee, again the soul may sink. Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek, Let not my spirit's flight be weak: Let me not, like this feeble thing, With brine still dropping from its wing, Just sparkle in the solar glow And plunge again to depths below; But, when I leave the grosser throng With whom my soul hath dwelt so long, Let me, in that aspiring day, Cast every lingering stain away, And, panting for thy purer air, Fly up at once and fix me there. ΤΟ MISS MOORE. FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803. Ix days, my Kate, when life was new, When, lull'd with innocence and you, I heard, in home's beloved shade, The din the world at distance made; When, every night my weary head Sunk on its own unthorned bed, And, mild as evening's matron hour, Looks on the faintly shutting flower, * It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of searly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally nduced from the waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circumstance which can tend To prove a kindred similitude between them; συγγένειαν τοις A mother saw our eyelids close, Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea Rolls wide between that home and me; The moon may thrice be born and die, Ere ev'n that seal can reach mine eye, Which used so oft, so quick to come, Still breathing all the breath of home,— As if, still fresh, the cordial air From lips beloved were lingering there. But now, alas,-far different fate! It comes o'er ocean, slow and late, When the dear hand that fill'd its fold With words of sweetness may lie cold. But hence that gloomy thought! at last, Beloved Kate, the waves are past: I tread on earth securely now, And the green cedar's living bough Breathes more refreshment to my eyes Than could a Claude's divinest dyes. At length I touch the happy sphere To liberty and virtue dear, Where man looks up, and, proud to claim His rank within the social frame, Sces a grand system round him roll, Himself its centre, sun, and soul! Far from the shocks of Europe-far From every wild, elliptic star That, shooting with a devious fire, Kindled by heaven's avenging ire, So oft hath into chaos hurl'd The systems of the ancient world. The warrior here, in arms no more, Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er, And glorying in the freedom won For hearth and shrine, for sire and son, Smiles on the dusky webs that hide His sleeping sword's remember'd pride. While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil, Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil, Effacing with her splendid share The drops that war had sprinkled there. πετομένοις προς τα νηκτα. With this thought in our minds, when we first see the Flying-Fish, we could almost fancy that we are present at the moment of creation and witness the birth of the first bird from the waves. Thrice happy land! where he who flies The mighty wood, with pomp, receives Such is the picture, warmly such, That Fancy long, with florid touch, Had painted to my sanguine eye Of man's new world of liberty. Oh! ask me not, if Truth have yet Her seal on Fancy's promise set; If ev'n a glimpse my eyes behold Of that imagined age of gold;Alas, not yet one gleaming trace!1 Never did youth, who loved a face As sketch'd by some fond pencil's skill, And made by fancy lovelier still, Shrink back with more of sad surprise, When the live model met his eyes, Than I have felt, in sorrow felt, To find a dream on which I've dwelt From boyhood's hour, thus fade and flee At touch of stern reality! But, courage, yet, my wavering heart! Blame not the temple's meanest part,' Till thou hast traced the fabric o'er :As yet, we have beheld no more Than just the porch to Freedom's fane; And, though a sable spot may stain The vestibule, 'tis wrong, 'tis sin To doubt the godhead reigns within! So here I pause--and now, my Kate, To you, and those dear friends, whose fate Touches more near this home-sick soul Than all the Powers from pole to pole, One word at parting-in the tone Most sweet to you, and most my own. 1 Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world for Martha's Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio. The French travellers, too, almost all from revolutionary motives, have contributed their share to the diffusion of this flattering misconception. A visit to the country is, however, quite sufficient to correct even the most enthusiastic prepossession. The simple strain I send you here," I thought of home, the according lays Oh! love the song, and let it oft Live on your lip, in accents soft. Say that it tells you, simply well, All I have bid its wild notes tell,Of Memory's dream, of thoughts that Glow with the light of joy that's set, And all the fond heart keeps in store Of friends and scenes beheld no more. And now, adieu!-this artless air, With a few rhymes, in transcript fair, Are all the gifts I yet can boast To send you from Columbia's coast; But when the sun, with warmer smile Shall light me to my destin'd isle,* You shall have many a cowslip-bell, Where Ariel slept, and many a shell, In which that gentle spirit drew From honey flowers the morning dew. TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL. FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. LADY! where'er you roam, whatever land Yet, Lady, no-for song so rude as mine, Chase not the wonders of your art divine; Still, radiant eye, upon the canvass dwell; Still, magic finger, weave your potent spell; And, while I sing the animated smiles Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles, Oh, might the song awake some bright design, Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line, Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought On painting's mirror so divinely caught; While wondering Genius, as he lean'd to trace The faint conception kindling into grace, Might love my numbers for the spark they threw, And bless the lay that lent a charm to you. Say, have you ne'er, in nightly vision, stray'd To those pure isles of ever-blooming shade, Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, placed For happy spirits in th' Atlantic waste?* There listening, while, from earth, each breeze that came Brought echoes of their own undying fame, 1 The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond. Lady Donegall, I had reason to suppose, was at this time in Switzerland, where the well-known powers of her cil must have been frequently awakened. The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne. M. Gebelin says, in his Monde Primitif, "Lorsque Strabon crût que les anciens théologiens et poëtes plaçoient les champs élysées dans les isles de l'Océan Atlantique, il n'entendit rien à leur doctrine." M. Gebelin's supposition, I have no doubt, is the more correct; but that of Strabo is, in the present instance, most to my purpose. Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland Bright rose the morning, every wave was still, And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails, Never did weary bark more gladly glide, Then thought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all 1 Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbor of St. George's. The number of beautifuk islets, the singular clearness of the water, and the animated play of the graceful little boats, gliding forever between the islands, and seeming to sail from one cedar-grove into another, formed altogether as lovely a miniature of nature's beauties as can well be imagined. 2 This is an allusion 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 islands, 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 ts owner robbed me of, by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me Delicate Ariel! who, in brighter hours, Lived on the perfume of these honey'd bo In velvet buds, at evening, loved to lie, And win with music every rose's sigh. Though weak the magic of my humble st To charm your spirit from its orb again, Yet, oh, for her, beneath whose smile I si For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wi Were dimm'd or ruffled by a wintry sky, Could smooth its feather and relume its d Descend a moment from your starry sphe And, if the lime-tree grove that once was The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy The sparkling grotto can delight you still. Oh cull their choicest tints, their softest lig Weave all these spells into one dream of And, while the lovely artist slumbering li Shed the warm picture o'er her mental e Take for the task her own creative spells And brightly show what song but faintly ΤΟ GEORGE MORGAN, ES OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.3 FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. Κείνη δ' ηνεμόεσσα και άτροπος, οια 9' άλιπ Αιθύτης και μαλλον επιδρομος πεπερ ίπποις, Ποντῳ ενεστηρικται. CALLIMACH. Hymn in D Он, what a sea of storm we've pass'd!High mountain waves and foamy shov And battling winds whose savage blast But ill agrees with one whose hours Have pass'd in old Anacreon's bowers. Yet think not poesy's bright charm Forsook me in this rude alarm :*— well and warmly, but I could never turn his he Grecian temple again. 3 This gentleman is attached to the British co Norfolk. His talents are worthy of a much high but the excellent dispositions of the family with resides, and the cordial repose he enjoys amongst s kindest hearts in the world, should be almost enoug to him for the worst caprices of fortune. The co self, Colonel Hamilton, is one among the very few of a man, ardently loyal to his king, and yet below Americans. His house is the very temple of hospi I sincerely pity the heart of that stranger who, w the welcome of such a board, could sit down to writ his host, in the true spirit of a modern philosophist Travels of the Duke de la Rouchefoucault Lianeo 4 We were seven days on our passage from Bermuda, during three of which we were forced t a gale of wind. The Driver sloop of war, in whi When close they reef'd the timid sail, When, every plank complaining loud, We labor'd in the midnight gale, And ev'n our haughty mainmast bow'd, Even then, in that unlovely hour, The Muse still brought her soothing power, The casket where my memory lays, Which time has saved from ancient days. Take one of these, to Lais sung,I wrote it while my hammock swung, As one might write a dissertation Upon "Suspended Animation!" Sweet' is your kiss, my Lais dear, Our last-go, false to heaven and me! SUCH, while in air I floating hung, Such was the strain, Morgante mio! was built at Bermuda of cedar, and is accounted an excellent sea-boat. She was then commanded by my very much 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. 1 This epigram is by Paul the Silentiary, and may be found in the Analects of Branck, 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 procaced the epigram. See his Poemata. Πέν μεν εστ. φίλημα το Δαιδος· ἡδυ δε αυτών The muse and I together sung, How sweetly after all our ills, Serenely o'er its fragrant hills; That now beneath my window lies, You'd think, that nature lavish'd 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. 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 heav'n, 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,3 Blest dreamer, who, in vision bright, And touch at all its isles of light. Ειπε δ' ανειρομένῳ, τινος ούνεκα δακρυα λείβεις; 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 difficult navigation with a skill and confidence which seem to astonish some of the oldest sailors. 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 Cosmiel) hanc asbestinam naviculam commoditati tuæ præparatam."-Itinerar. I. Dial. i. cap. 5. This work of Kircher abounds with strange fancies. 4 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; |