POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA

TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT.

SWEET Moon! if, like Crona's sage,

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

The recollection, kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,

The promise, never to forget,

And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-lov'd, distant friend.

How little, when we parted last,
I thought those pleasant times were past,
For ever past, when brilliant joy
Was all my vacant heart's employ !
When, fresh from mirth to mirth again,
We thought the rapid hours too few;
Our only use for knowledge then
To gather bliss from all we knew.
Delicious days of whim and soul!

When, mingling lore and laugh together,
We lean'd the book on Pleasure's bowl,
And turn'd the leaf with Folly's feather.
Little I thought that all were fled,
That, ere that summer's bloom was shed,
My eye should see the sail unfurl'd

That wafts me to the western world.

And yet, 'twas time;-in youth's sweet days,

To cool that season's glowing rays,

The heart awhile, with wanton wing,
May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring;
But, if it wait for winter's breeze,

The spring will chill, the heart will freeze
And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,-

Oh she awak'd such happy dreams, And gave my soul such tempting scope For all its dearest, fondest schemes, That not Verona's child of song,

When flying from the Phrygian shore, With lighter heart could bound along, Or pant to be a wand'rer more!

Even now delusive hope will steal Amid the dark regrets I feel, Soothing, as yonder placid beam

Pursues the murmurers of the deep, And lights them with consoling gleam, And smiles them into tranquil sleep. Oh! such a blessed night as this,

I often think, if friends were near, How we should feel, and gaze with blis Upon the moon-bright scenery here!

The sea is like a silvery lake,

And o'er its calm the vessel glides

Gently, as if it fear'd to wake

The slumber of the silent tides.

The only envious cloud that lowers.

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height, Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers And scowling at this heav'n of light, Exults to see the infant storm Cling darkly round his giant form!

Now, could I range those verdant isles,
Invisible at this soft hour,

And see the looks, the beaming smiles,
That brighten many an orange bower;
And could I lift each pious veil,

And see the blushing cheek it shadesOh! I should have full many a tale,

To tell of young Azorian maids.

Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps,
Some lover (not too idly blest,
Like those, who in their ladies' laps

May cradle every wish to rest),
Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul,
Those madrigals, of breath divine,
Which Camoens' harp from Rapture stole
And gave, all glowing warm, to thine.
Oh! could the lover learn from thee,

And breathe them with thy graceful tone,
Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy

Would make the coldest nymph his own.

But, hark—the boatswain's pipings tell
'Tis time to bid my dream farewell:
Eight bells: the middle watch is set;
Good night, my Strangford !-ne'er forget
That, far beyond the western sea

Is one whose heart remembers thee.

The storms of the morning pursued us no more; And the wave, while it welcom'd the moment of rest, Still heav'd, as remembering ills that were o'er.

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,

Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead; And the spirit becalm'd but remember'd their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.

I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone
My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known,
Was pity for those who were wiser than I.

I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire
The pearl of the soul may be melted away;
How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire

We inherit from heav'n may be quench'd in the clay;

And I pray'd of that Spirit who lighted the flame,

That Pleasure no more might its purity dim;

So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same,

I might give back the boon I had borrow'd from him.

How blest was the thought! it appear'd as if Heaven
Had already an opening to Paradise shown;
As if, passion all chasten'd and error forgiven,
My heart then began to be purely its own.

look'd to the west, and the beautiful sky, Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more; "Oh! thus," I exclaimed, "may a heavenly eye Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before."

TO MISS MOORE.

FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.

IN 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,
A mother saw our eyelids close,
And bless'd them into pure repose;
Then, haply if a week, a day,
I linger'd from that home away,

How long the little absence seem'd!
How bright the look of welcome beam'd,
As mute you heard, with eager smile,
My tales of all that pass'd the while!

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 soft, so quick to come, Still breathing all the breath of home,As if, still fresh, the cordial air From lips belov'd 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,

Sees 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.