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Well there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;

Oh! most to him,
Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed

Round sorrow's brim.

But, whither means the muse to roam ?
'Tis time to call the wand'rer home.
Who could have thought the nymph would perch her
Up in the clouds with Father Kircher ?
So, health and love to all your mansion !

Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom in,
The flow of heart, the soul's expansion,

Mirth and song, your board illumine. At all your feasts, remember too,

When cups are sparkling to the brim, That here is one who drinks to you,

And, oh! as warmly drink to him.

Yes he can smile serene at death :
Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping

Of friends who love him ;
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping
Where sorrow's sting or envy's treath

No more shall move him.




NEA rupavvet.-EURIPID. Medea, v. 967.


That sky of clouds is not the sky To light a lover to the pillow

Of her he lovesThe swell of yonder foaming billou Resembles not the happy sigh

That rapture moves

Nay, tempt me not to love again,

There was a time when love was sweet ; Dear Nea! had I known thee then,

Our souls had not been slow to meet. But, oh, this weary heart hath run,

So many a time, the rounds of pain, Not ev'n for thee, thou lovely one,

Would I endure such pangs again.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,

In this dark hour,
Than when, in passion's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,

To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given

To pleasure's thrill; 'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, And the soul, listening to the sound,

If there be climes, where never yet
The print of beauty's foot was set,
Where man may pass his loveless nights,
Unsever'd by her false delights,
Thither my wounded soul would fly,
Where rosy cheek or radiant eye
Should bring no more their bliss, or pain,
Nor fetter me to earth again.
Dear absent girl ! whose eyes of light,

Though little prized when all my ownl, * An aquis globi Veneris baptismus institui possit?" to which the Genius answers, “ Certainly."

I This idea is Father Kircher's. "Tot animatos soles dixisses."- Itinerar. I. Dial. i. cap. 5.

Lies mute and still.

such being, 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 ?"

Now float before me, soft and bright

As when they first enamoring shono,What hours and days have I seen glide, While fix'd, enchanted, by thy side, Unmindful of the fleeting day, I've let life's dream dissolve away. O bloom of youth profusely shed ! O moments! simply, vainly sped, Yet sweetly too—for Love perfumed The flame which thus my life consumed; And brilliant was the chain of flowers, In which he led my victim-hours.

Remember, o'er its circling flood
In what a dangerous dream we stood

The silent sea before us,
Around us, all the gloom of grove,
That ever lent its shade to love,

No eye but heaven's o'er us!

I saw you blush, you felt me tremble,
In vain would formal art dissemblo

All we then look'd and thought ; 'Twas more than tongue could dare reveal, 'Twas ev'ry thing that young hearts feel,

By Love and Nature taught.

Say, Nea, say, couldst thou, like her, When warm to feel and quick to err, Of loving fond, of roving fonder, This thoughtless soul might wish to wander, Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim,

Endearing still, reproaching never, Till ev'n this heart should burn with shame,

And be thy own more fix'd than ever ? No, no-on earth there's only one

Could bind such faithless folly fast; And sure on earth but one alone

Could make such virtue false at last!

I stoop'd to cull, with faltering hand, A shell that, on the golden sand

Before us faintly gleam'd; I trembling raised it, and when yiki Had kiss'd the shell, I kiss'd it too

How sweet, how wrong it seem'd!

Oh, trust me, 'twas a place, an hour, The worst that e'er the tempter's power

Could tangle me or you in ; Sweet Nea, let us roam no more Along that wild and lonely shore,

Such walks may be our ruin.

Nea, the heart which she forsook,

For thee were but a worthless shrineGo, lovely girl, that angel look

Must thrill a soul more pure than mine. Oh! thou shalt be all else to me,

That heart can feel or tongue can feign ; I'll praise, admire, and worship thee,

Bat must not, dare not, love again.

You read it in these spell-bound eyes,

And there alone should love be read; You hear me say it all in sighs,

And thus alone should love be said.

Then dread no more ; I will not speak;

Although my heart to anguish thrill, I'll spare the burning of your cheek,

And look it all in silence still.

Tale iter omne cave.

PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. &

I PRAY you, let us roam no more
Along that wild and lonely shore,

Where late we thoughtless stray'd; 'Twas not for us, whom heaven intends To be no more than simple friends,

Such lonely walks were made.

Heard you the wish I dared to name,

To murmur on that luckless night, When passion broke tho bonds of shamo,

And love grew madness in your sight?

Divinoly through the graceful dance,

You seem'd to float in silent song, Bending to earth that sunny glance,

As if to light your steps along.

That little Bay, where turning in From ocean's rude and angry din,

As lovers steal to bliss, The billows kiss the shore, and then Flow back into the deep again,

As though they did not kiss.

Oh! how could others dare to touch

That hallow'd form with hand so free, When but to look was bliss too much,

Too rare for all but Love and me!

With smiling eyes, that little thought

How fatal were the beams they throw, My trembling hands you lightly caught,

And round me, like a spirit, flew.

I felt, so strongly fancy's power
Came o'er me in that witching hour,-
As if the whole bright scenery there

Were lighted by a Grecian sky,
And I then breathed the blissful air

That late had thrillid to Sappho's sigh.

Heedless of all, but you alone,

And you, at least, should not condemn, If, when such eyes before me shone,

My soul forgot all eyes but them,

I dared to whisper passion's vow,

For love had ev'n of thought bereft me,Nay, half-way bent to kiss that brow,

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 that's best and worst in man.

Thus, waking, dream'd 1,--and when Sleep

Came o'er my sense, the dream went on;
Nor, through her curtain dim and deep,

Hath ever lovelier vison shone.
I thought that, all enrapt, I stray'd
Through that serene, luxurious shade,'
Where Epicurus taught tho Loves

To polish virtue's native brightness,-
As pearls, we're told, that fondling doves

Have play'd with, wear a smoother whitenese 'Twas one of those delicious nights

So common in the climes of Greece,
When day withdraws bul half its lights,

And all is moonshine, balm, and peace.
And thou wert there, my own beloved,
And by thy side I fondly roved
Through many a temple's reverend gloom,
And many a bower's seductive bloom,
Where Beauty learn'd what Wisdom taught,
And sages sigh’d and lovers thought;
Where schoolmen conn'd no maxims stern,

But all was form'd to sooth or move,
To make the dullest love to learn,

To make the coldest learn to love.

That moment, did th' assembled 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; Enough for me to win your love,

And die upon the spot when won.


I just had turn'd the classic page,

And traced that happy period over, When blest alike were youth and age, And love inspired the wisest sage,

And wisdom grace, the tenderest lover.

And now the fairy pathway seem'd

To lead us through enchanted ground,
Where all that bard has ever dream'd

Of love or luxury bloom'd around.
Oh! 'twas a bright, bewild'ring scene-
Along the alley's deep'ning green
Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers,
And scented and illumed the bowers,
Seem'd, as to him, who darkling roves
Amid the lone Hercynian groves,
Appear those countless birds of light,
That sparkle in the leaves at night,
And from their wings diffuse a ray
Along the traveller's weary way.®
'Twas light of that mysterious kind,

Through which the soul perchance may roam
When it has left this world behind,

And gone to seek its heavenly home.

Before I laid me down to sliep,

Awhile I from the lattice guzed Upon that still and moonlight deep,

With isles like floating gardens raised For Ariel there his sports to keep ; While, gliding 'twixt their leafy shores, The lone night-fisher plied his oars.

1 Gassendi thinks that the gardens, which Pausanias men ? This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them awhi tions in his first book, were those of Epicurus; and Stuart to be played with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Ca says, in his Antiquities of Athens, “ Near this convent (the danus, de Rerum Varietat. lib. vii. cap. 34. convent of Hagios Asomatos) is the place called at present 3 In Hercynio Germaniæ saltu inusitata genera alitum ai Kepol, or the Gardens; and Ampelos Kepos, or the Vine- cepimus, quarum plumæ, ignium modo, colluceant noctibu yard Garden: these were probably the gardens which Pau - Plin. lib. I. cap. 47. sanias visited." Vol. i. chap. 2.

And, Nea, thou wert by my side,
Through all this heav'nward path my guide.

To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves,'
Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves,
And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet
Their allurements forgive and their splendor forgot.

Farewell to Bermuda, and long may the bloom
Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume ;
May spring to eternity hallow the shade,
Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has stray'd.
And thou—when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to


But, lo, as wand'ring thus we ranged
That upward path, the vision changed ;
And now, methought, we stole along

Through halls of more voluptuous glory
Than ever lived in Teian song,

Or wanton'd in Milesian story.'
And nymphs were there, whose very eyes
Seem'd soften' o'er with breath of sighs;
Whose ev'ry ringlet, as it wreath’d,
A mute appeal to passion breathed.
Some flew, with amber cups, around,

Pouring the flowery wines of Crete;'
And, as they pass’d with youthful bound,

The onyx shone beneath their feet. While others, waving arms of snow

Entwined by snakes of burnish'd gold,
And showing charms, as loath to show,

Through many a thin Tarentian fold,
Glided among the festal throng
Bearing rich urns of flowers along.
Where roses lay, in languor breathing,
And the young bee-grape, round them wreathing,
Hung on their blushes warm and meek,
Like curls upon a rosy cheek.

Through the lime-cover'd alley that leads to thy

Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done,
And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun,
I have led thee along, and have told by the way
What my heart all the night had been burning to

Oh! think of the past-give a sigh to those times,
And a blessing for me to that alley of limes.

If I were yonder wave, my dear,

And thou the isle it clasps around,
I would not let a foot come near

My land of bliss, my fairy ground.

Oh, Nea! why did morning break

The spell that thus divinely bound me? Why did I wake ? how could I wake

With thee my own and heaven around me !

If I were yonder conch of gold,

And thou the pearl within it placed,
I would not let an eye behold

The sacred gems my arms embraced.

Well-peace to thy heart, though another’s it be,
And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for


If I were yonder orange-treo,

And thou the blossom blooming there,
I would not yield a breath of thee

To scent the most imploring air.

1 The Milesiacs, or Milesian fables, had their origin in 'Mi the Muscatel, (a muscarum telis,") says Pancirollus, book i., letas, a luxurious town of lonia. Aristides was the most sect. 1, chap. 17. celebrated author of these licentious fictions. See Plutarch, 7 I had, at this time, some idea of paying a visit to the (in Crasso,) who calls them axudaoru Biblia.

West Indies. * * Some of the Cretan wines, which Athenæus calls orvos 8 The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were writartaculas, from their fragrancy resembling that of the ten Bermooda. See the commentators on the words “stillo finest flowers."- Barry on Wines, chap. vii.

vex'd Bermoothes," in the Tempest.-I wonder it did not · It appears that in very splendid mansions, the floor or occur to some of those all-reading gentlemen that, possibly, pavement was frequently of onyx. Thus Martial : “Calca the discoverer of this “ island of hogs and devils" might have fusque tuo sub pede lucet onyx." Epig. 50, lib. xii.

been no less a personage than the great John Bermudez, • Bracelets of this shape were a favorite ornament among who, about the same period (the beginning of the sixteenth the women of antiquity. oi cheKapitologis kai al Xpvoor century) was sent Patriarch of the Latin church to Ethiopia, redai Oaidos kat Aprorayopas kai Aaidos ¢uppaxa.--Philos- and has left us most wonderful stories of the Amazons and trat. Epist. xl. Lucian, too, tells us of the Bpaxiouoi dpa- the Griffins which he encountered.-- Trarels of the Jesuits, **T05. See his Amores, where he describes the dressing. vol. i. I am afraid, however, it would take the Patriarch roon of a Grecian lady, and we find the "silver vase," the rather too much out of his way. muge, the tooth-powder, and all the “mystic order" of a 9 Johnson does not think that Waller was ever at Bermuda; modern toilet.

but the “ Account of the European Settlements in America" ο Ταραντινιδιον, διαφανες ενδυμα, ωνομασμενος απο της affirms it confidently, (vol. ii.) I mention this work, however, Ταραντινων χρήσεως και τρυφης.-Pollur.

less for its authority than for the pleasure I feel in quoting • Apiana, mentioned by Pliny, lib. xiv., and “now called an unacknowledged production of the great Edníund Burke.

Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink,

Give not the wave that odorous sigh, Nor let its burning mirror drink

The soft reflection of thine eye.

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,

So pictured in the waters seem, That I could gladly plunge to seek

Thy image in the glassy stream.

Blest fate! at once my chilly grave

And nuptial bed that stream might be ; I'll wed thee in its mimic wave,

And die upon the shade of thee.

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 burn;

Thy blush on every flow'ret lies.

Nor find I in creation aught

Of bright, or beautiful, or rare, Sweet to the sense, or pure to tkought,

But thou art found reflected there.


How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale,

And brightening the bosom of morn,
He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil

O'er the brow of each virginal thorn.
Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts

Is the veil of a vestal severe;
No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts,

Should the Snow Spirit ever come here

But fly to his region-lay open thy zone,

And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim,
To think that a bosom, as white as his own,

Should not melt in the daybeam like him.
Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet

O'er his luminous path will appear-
Fly, fly, my beloved ! this island is sweet,

But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

Ενταύθα δε καθωρμισται ημιν. και ό, τι μεν ονομα τη νησι

ουκ οιδα χρυση δ' αν προς γε εμου ονομαζοιτο.-PHILO:
TRAT. Icon. 17, lib. ii.

I STOLE along the flowery bank,
While many a bending seagrape' drank
The sprinkle of the feathery oar
That wing'd me round this fairy shore.

'Twas noon; and every orange bud
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,
Faint as the lids of maiden's eyes
When love-thoughts in her bosom rise.
Oh, for a naiad's sparry bower,
To shade me in that glowing hour!


No, ne'er did the wave in its element steef

An island of lovelier charms
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,

Like Hebe in Hercules' arms.
The blush of your bowers is light to the eye,

And their melody balm to the ear;
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,

And the Snow Spirit nover comes here.

A little dove, of milky hue,
Before me from a plantain flew,
And, light along the water's brim,
I steer'd my gentle bark by him;
For fancy told me, Love had sent
This gentle bird with kind intent
To lead my steps, where I should meet-
I knew not what, but something sweet.

The down from his wing is as white as the pearl

That shines thr thy lips when they part,
And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,

As a murmur of thine on the heart.
Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death,

As he cradles the birth of the year;
Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,

But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

And-bless the little pilot dove !
He had indeed been sent by Love,
To guide me to a scene so dear
As fate allows but seldom here;
One of those rare and brilliant hours,
That, like the aloe's lingering flowers,
May blossom to the eye of man
But once in all his weary span.

1 The seaside or mangrove grape, a native of the West but it is quite true enough for poetry Plato, I think, allos Indies.

a poet to be "three removes from truth;" fpiraros ato T 3 The Agave. This, I am aware, is an erroneous notion, annoccas.

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