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Oh! never can my heart rely

“ Oh! why should fairy Fancy keep
On word or look, on oath or sigh.

These wonders for herself alone ?"
Take back the gifts, so sweetly given,

I knew not then that Fate had lent
With promis'd faith and vows to Heaven;
That little ring, which, night and morn,

Such tones to one of mortal birth;
With wedded truth my hand hath worn;

I knew not then that Heaven had sent
That seal which oft, in moment blest,

A voice, a form like thine on earth!
Thou hast upon my lip imprest,

And yet, in all that flowery maze
And sworn its dewy spring should be

Through which my life has lov'd to tread,
A fountain seal'd' for only thee!

When I have heard the sweetest lays
Take, take them back, the gift and vow,

From lips of dearest lustre shed;
All sullied, lost, and hateful, now !"

When I have felt the warbled word
I took the ring—the seal I took,

From Beauty's mouth of perfume sighing,
While oh! her every tear and look

Sweet as music's hallow'd bird
Were such as angels look and shed,

Upon a rose's bosom lying !
When man is by the world misled!
Gently I whisper'd, “Fanny, dear!

Though form and song at once combin'd
Not half thy lovers gifts are here:

Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill,
Say, where are all the seals he gave

My heart hath sigh’d, my heart hath pin’d
To every ringlet's jetty wave,

For something softer, lovelier still!
And where is every one he printed

Oh! I have found it all, at last,
Upon that lip, so ruby-tinted-

In thee, thou sweetest, living lyre,
Seals of the purest gem of bliss,

Through which the soul hath ever pass'd
Oh! richer, softer, far than this !

Its harmonizing breath of fire!
“And then the ring—my love! recall

All that my best and wildest dream,
How many rings, delicious all,

In Fancy's hour, could hear of see
His arms around that neck hath twisted,

Of Music's sigh or Beauty's beam
Twining warmer far than this did!

Are realiz’d, at once, in thee!
Where are they all, so sweet, so many ?
Oh! dearest, give back all, if any."
While thus I murmur'd, trembling too

Lest all the nymph had vow'd was true,
I saw a smile relenting rise

WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALLS OF 'Mid the moist azure of her eyes,

Like day-light o'er a sea of blue,
While yet the air is dim with dew!

Gia era in loco ove s'udia 'l rimbombo
She let her cheek repose on mine,

She let my arms around her twine-
Oh! who can tell the bliss one feels
In thus exchanging rings and seals !

From rise of morn till set of sun,
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run,

And as I mark'd the woods of pine

Along his mirror darkly shine,

Like tall and gloomy forms that pass

Before the wizard's midnight glass;
I MORE than once have heard, at night,

And as I view'd the hurrying pace
A song, like those thy lips have given,

With which he ran his turbid race,
And it was sung by shapes of light,

Rushing, alike untir'd and wild,
Who seem'd, like thee, to breathe of heaven! Through shades that frown'd, and flowers that

But this was all a dream of sleep,

Flying by every green recess
And I have said, when morning shone,

That woo'd him to its calm caress,
important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel.

Yet, sometimes turning with the wind,
We find in Pausanias, that this valley supplied the branches,

As if to leave one look behind!
of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plu-
tarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, The youth who
brings the Tempic laurel to Delpbi is always attended by a 1 There is a dreary and savage character in the country
player on the fute.” Αλλα μην και των κατακομιζοντι παιδι immediately abo these Falls, which is much more in har-
την Τεμπικην δαφνην εις Δελφες παρομαρτει αυλητης. mony with the wildness of such a scene, than the cultivated

1" There are gardens, supposed to be those of King Solo- lands in the neighbourhood of Niagara. See the drawing mon, in the neighbourhood of Bethlehem. The friars show of them in Mr. Weld's book. According to him, the pera fountain which they say is the sealed fountain,' to which pendicular height of the Cohos Falls is fifty feet; but the the holy spouse in the Canticles is compared ; and they pre- Marquis de Chastellux makes it seventy-six. tend a tradition, that Solomon shut up these springs and put The fine rainbow, which is continually forming and dishis signet upon the door, to keep them for his own drinking." solving as the spray rises into the light of the sun, is per- Maundrell's Travels. See also the Notes to Mr. Good's haps the most interesting beauty which these wonderful Translation of the Song of Solomon.

cataracts exhibit.

Dell' acqua.


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Oh! I have thought, and thinking, sigh'd-
How like to thee, thou restless tide!
May be the lot, the life of him,
Who roams along thy water's brim!
Through what alternate shades of woe,
And flowers of joy my path may go!
How many a humble still retreat
May rise to court my weary feet,
While still pursuing, still unblest,
I wander on, nor dare to rest!
But, urgent as the doom that calls
Thy water to its destin'd falls,
I see the world's bewildering force
Hurry my heart's devoted course
From lapse to lapse, till life be done,
And the last current cease to run!
Oh, may my falls be bright as thine !
May Heaven's forgiving rainbow shine
Upon the mist that circles me,
As soft, as now it hangs o'er thee!

Think'st thou, when Julia's lip and breast

Inspir'd my youthful tongue,
I coldly spoke of lips unprest,

Nor felt the heaven I sung ?
No, no, the spell, that warm'd so long,

Was still my Julia's kiss,
And still the girl was paid, in song,

What she had giv'n in bliss !
Then beam one burning smile on me,

And I will sing those eyes;
Let me but feel a breath from thee,

And I will praise thy sighs.
That rosy mouth alone can bring

What makes the bard divineOh, Lady! how my lip would sing,

If once 'twere prest to thine!


Qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla....

Ovid. Metam. Lib. ii. v. 227.

CLORIS AND FANNY. Cloris! if I were Persia's king,

I'd make my graceful queen of thee: While FANNY, wild and artless thing,

Should but my humble handmaid be. There is but one objection in it

That, verily, I'm much afraid
I should, in some unlucky minute,

Forsake the mistress for the maid!

With woman's form and woman's tricks
So much of man you seem to mix,

One knows not where to take you;
I pray you, if ’tis not too far,
Go, ask of Nature which you are,

Or what she meant to make you.
Yet stay-you need not take the pains-
With neither beauty, youth, nor brains

For man or maid's desiring:
Pert as female, fool as male,
As boy too green, as girl too stale-

The thing 's not worth inquiring !

Now the vapour, hot and damp,
Shed by day's expiring lamp,
Through the misty ether spreads
Every ill the white man dreads;
Fiery fever's thirsty thrill,
Fitful ague's shivering chill!
Hark! I hear the traveller's song,
As he winds the woods along,
Christian ! 'tis the song of fear;
Wolves are round thee, night is near,
And the wild thou dar'st to roam-
Oh! 'twas once the Indian's home!2
Hither, sprites, who love to harm,
Wheresoe'er you work your charm,
By the creeks, or by the brakes,
Where the pale witch feeds her snakes,
And the cayman loves to creep,
Torpid, to his wintry sleep:
Where the bird of carrion flits,

And the shuddering murderer sits, i The idea of this poem occurred to me in passing through the very dreary wilderness between Batavia, a new settlement in the midst of the woods, and the little village of Buffalo upon Lake Erie. This is the most fatiguing part of the route, in travelling through the Genesee country to Niagara.

2 * The Five Confederated Nations (of Indians) were settled along the banks of the Susquehanna and the adja. cent country, until the year 1779, when General Sullivan, with an army of 4000 men, drove them from their country to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on salted provisions, to which they were unaccustomed, great numbers of them died. Two hundred of them, it is said, were buried in one grave, where they had encamped."- Morse's American Geography.

3 The alligator, who is supposed to lie in a torpid state all the winter, in the bank of some creek or pond, having pre

viously swallowed a large number of pine-knots, which are his only sustenance during the time.

4 This was the mode of punishment for murder (as Father Charlevoix tells us) among the Hurons. They laid the dead body upon poles at the top of a cabin, and the murderer was obliged to remain several days together, and to receive all that dropped from the carcass, not only on himself but on his food."



Sine venere friget Apollo.

Ægid. Menagius.

How can I sing of fragrant sighs

I ne'er have felt from thee? How can I sing of smiling eyes,

That ne'er have smil'd on me? The heart, 'tis true, may fancy much,

But, oh! 'tis cold and seemingOne moment's real, rapturous touch

Is worth an age of dreaming !

Did ever lip's ambrosial air

Such perfume o'er thy altars shed ?

One maid there was, who round her lyre

The mystic myrtle wildly wreath'd-
But all her sighs were sighs of fire,

The myrtle wither'd as she breath'd'

Oh! you that love's celestial dream,

In all its purity, would know,
Let not the senses' ardent beam,

Too strongly through the vision glow !

Love sweetest lies, conceal'd in night,

The night where Heaven has bid him lie; Oh! shed not there unhallowed light,

Or Psyche knows, the boy will fly!!

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Lone beneath a roof of blood,
While upon his poison'd food,
From the corpse of him he slew
Drops the chill and gory dew!
Hither bend you, turn you hither
Eyes that blast and wings that wither!
Cross the wandering Christian's way,
Lead him, ere the glimpse of day,
Many a mile of madd’ning error
Through the maze of night and terror,
Till the morn behold him lying
O’er the damp earth, pale and dying !
Mock him, when his eager sight
Seeks the cordial cottage-light;
Gleam then, like the lightning-bug,
Tempt him to the den that's dug
For the foul and famish'd brood
Of the she-wolf, gaunt for blood !
Or, unto the dangerous pass
O’er the deep and dark morass,
Where the trembling Indian brings
Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings,
Tributes, to be hung in air
To the Fiend presiding there !
Then, when night's long labour past,
Wilder'd, faint, he falls at last,
Sinking where the causeway's edge
Moulders in the slimy sedge,
There let every noxious thing
Trail its filth and fix its sting ;
Let the bull-toad taint him over,
Round him let musquitoes hover,
In his ears and eye-balls tingling,
With his blood their poison mingling,
Till, beneath the solar fires,
Rankling all, the wretch expires !

Dear Psyche! many a charmed hour,

Through many a wild and magic waste,
To the fair fount and blissful bower2

Thy mazy foot my soul hath trac'd!

Where'er thy joys are number'd now,

Beneath whatever shades of rest,
The Genius of the starry brow3

Hath chain'd thee to thy Cupid's breast;

Whether above the horizon dim,

Along whose verge our spirits stray, (Half sunk within the shadowy brim,

Half brighten'd by the eternal ray.14

Thou risest to a cloudless pole!

Or, lingering here, dost love to mark
The twilight walk of many a soul

Through sunny good and evil dark ;

Still be the song to Psyche dear,

The song, whose dulcet tide was given

To keep her name as fadeless here,


As nectar keeps her soul in heaven!

1802. TELL me the witching tale again,

1 See the story in Apuleius. With respect to this beautiful For never has my heart or ear

allegory of Love and Psyche, there is an ingenious idea

suggested by the senator Buonarotti, in his “Osservazioni Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,

sopru alcuni frammenti di vasi antichi." He thinks the So pure to feel, so sweet to hear!

fable is taken from some very occult mysteries, which had

long been celebrated in honour of Love; and he accounts, Say, Love! in all thy spring of fame,

upon this supposition, for the silence of the more ancient

authors upon the subject, as it was not till towards the deWhen the high heaven itself was thine; cline of pagan superstition, that writers could venture to When piety confess'd the flame,

reveal or discuss such ceremonies; accordingly, he observes,

we find Lucian and Plutarch treating, without reserve, of And even thy errors were divine!

the Dea Syria, and Isis and Osiris; and Apuleius, who has

given us the story of Cupid and Psyche, has also detailed Did ever Muse's hand, so fair

some of the mysteries of Isis. See the Giornale di Litterati

d'Italia, tom. xxvii. articol. 1. See also the Observations A glory round thy temple spread ?

upon the ancient Gems in the Museum Florentinum, vol.

I cannot avoid remarking here an error into which the 1“We find also collars of porcelain, tobacco, ears of French Encyclopédistes have been led by M. Spon, in their maize, skins, etc. by the side of difficult and dangerous ways, article Psyche. They say, “ Petron fait un récit de la on rocks, or by the side of the falls; and these are so many pompe nuptiale de ces deux amans (Amour et Psyché.) offerings made to the spirits which preside in these places.” Déjà, dit-il,” etc. etc. The Psyche of Petronius, however, See Charlevoix's Letter on the Traditions and the Religion is å servant-maid, and the marriage which he describes is of the Savages of Canada.

that of the young Pannychis. See Spon's Recherches Father Hennepin too mentions this ceremony; he also Curieuses, etc. Dissertat. 5. says, “ We took notice of one barbarian, who made a kind 2 Allusions to Mrs. T-ghe's poem. of sacrifice upon an oak at the Cascade of St. Antony of 3 Constancy. Padua, upon the river Mississippi.” See Hennepin's Voyage 4 By this image the Platonists expressed the middle state into North America.

of the soul between sensible and intellectual existence.

1. p. 156.

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Mind, mind alone, without whose quickening ray, IMPROMPTU, UPON LEAVING SOME

The world 's a wilderness, and man but clay,

Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose,

Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows ! O dulces comitum valete coetus-Catullus.

Take Christians, Mohawks, Democrats and all

From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall,
No, never shall my soul forget

From man the savage, whether slav'd or free,
The friends I found so cordial-hearted;

To man the civiliz'd, less tame than he!
Dear shall be the day we met,

'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife
And dear shall be the night we parted! Betwixt half-polish'd and half-barbarous life;
Oh ! if regrets, however sweet,

Where every ill the ancient world can brew
Must with the lapse of time decay,

Is mix'd with every grossness of the new;
Yet still, when thus in mirth you meet,

Where all corrupts though little can entice,
Fill high to him that's far away!

And nothing's known of luxury, but vice!
Long be the flame of memory found,

Is this the region then, is this the clime
Alive-when with your social glass,

For golden fancy? for those dreams sublime,
Let that be still the magic round,

Which all their miracles of light reveal
O'er which oblivion dares not pass !

To heads that meditate and hearts that feel?
No, no—the muse of inspiration plays
O’er every scene; she walks the forest-maze,

And climbs the mountain ; every blooming spot

Burns with her step, yet man regards it not!

She whispers round, her words are in the air,
But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there,

Without one breath of soul, divinely strong,
Nec venit ad duros musa vocata getas.
Ovid ex Ponto, Lib. i. 5.

One ray of heart to thaw them into song!

Yet, yet forgive me, oh, you sacred few!

Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew, Thou oft hast told me of the fairy hours

Whom, known and lov'd through many a social eve, Thy heart has number'd in those classic bowers, 'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave ! Where fancy sees the ghost of ancient wit

Less dearly welcome were the lines of yore 'Mid cowls and cardinals profanely flit,

The exile saw upon the sandy shore, And pagan spirits, by the pope unlaid,

When his lone heart but faintly hop'd to find Haunt every stream and sing through every shade! One print of man, one blessed stamp of mind! There still the bard, who, (if his numbers be Less dearly welcome than the liberal zeal, His tongue's light echo,) must have talk'd like thee, The strength to reason and the warmth to feel, The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught The manly polish and the illumin'd taste, Those playful, sunshine holidays of thought Which, ʼmid the melancholy, heartless waste In which the basking soul reclines and glows, My foot has wander'd, oh you sacred few! Warm without toil and brilliant in repose.

I found by Delaware's green banks with you. There still he roves, and laughing loves to see Long may you hate the Gallic dross that runs How modern monks with ancient rakes agree; O'er your fair country and corrupts its sons ; How mitres hang, where ivy wreaths might twine, Long love the arts, the glories which adorn And heathen Massic 's damn'd for stronger wine! Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born. There too are all those wandering souls of song,

Oh! if America can yet be great, With whom thy spirit hath commun'd so long, If, neither chain'd by choice, nor damn'd by fate Whose rarest gems are, every instant, hung By memory's magic on thy sparkling tongue.

sippi. “I believe this is the finest confluence in the world. But here, alas ! by Erie's stormy lake,

The two rivers are much of the same breadth, each about As far from thee, my lonely course I take,

half a league; but the Missouri is by far the most rapid, and No bright remembrance o'er the fancy plays,

seems to enter the Mississippi like a conqueror, through

which it carries its white waves to the opposite shore withNo classic dream, no star of other days

out mixing them: afterwards it gives its colour to the MisHas left that visionary glory here,

sissippi, which it never loses again, but carries quite down That relic of its light, so soft, so dear,

to the sea." - Letter xxvii.

1 In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at PhilaWhich gilds and hallows even the rudest scene, delphia, I passed the few agreeable moments which my tour The humblest shed, where genius once has been! through the States afforded me. Mr. Dennie has succeeded

in diffusing through this elegant little circle that love for All that creation's varying mass assumes

good literature and sound politics, which he feels so zealOf grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms;

ously himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic

of his countrymen. They will not, I trust, accuse me of Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow, illiberality for the picture which I have given of the igno Bright lakes expand, and conquering' rivers flow;

rance and corruption that surround them. If I did not hate, as I ought, the rabble to which they are opposed, I could

not value, as I do, the spirit with which they defy it; and, ? This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking de- in learning from them what Americans can be, I but see scription of the confluence of the Missouri with the Missis- I with the more indignation what Americans are

In lines of fire such heavenly lore, That man should read them and adore !

To the mob-mania which imbrues her now,
She yet can raise the bright but temperate brow
Of single majesty, can grandly place
An empire's pillar upon freedom's base,
Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove
For the fair capital that flowers above ?-
If yet, releas'd from all that vulgar throng,
So vain of dulness and so pleas'd with wrong,
Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide
Folly in froth, and barrenness in pride,
She yet can rise, can wreath the attic charms
Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms,
And see her poets flash the fires of song,
To light her warriors' thunderbolts along !
It is to you, to souls that favouring Heaven
Has made like yours, the glorious task is given-
Oh, but for such, Columbia's days were done;
Rank without ripeness, quicken'd without sun,
Crude at the surface, rotten at the core,
Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er !

Yet have I known a gentle maid
Whose early charms were just array'd
In nature's loveliness like thine,
And wore that clear, celestial sign,
Which seems to mark the brow that's fair
For Destiny's peculiar care !
Whose bosom too was once a zone,
Where the bright gem of virtue shone
Whose eyes were talismans of fire
Against the spell of man's desire !
Yet, hapless girl, in one sad hour,
Her charms have shed their radiant flower;
The gem has been beguil'd away;
Her eyes have lost their chastening ray;
The simple fear, the guiltless shame,
The smiles that from reflection came,
All, all have fled, and left her mind
A faded monument behind !
Like some wave-beaten, mouldering stone
To memory rais'd by hands unknown,
Which, many a wintry hour, has stood,
Beside the ford of Tyra's flood,
To tell the traveller, as he cross'd,
That there some loved friend was lost!
Oh! 'twas a sight I wept to see-
Heaven keep the lost-one's fate from thee!

Believe me, SPENCER, while I wing'd the hours Where Schuylkill undulates through banks of flow

ers, Though few the days, the happy evenings few, So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, That my full soul forgot its wish to roam, And rested there, as in a dream of home! And looks I met, like looks I lov'd before, And voices too, which, as they trembled o'er The chord of memory, found full many a tone Of kindness there in concord with their own! Oh! we had nights of that communion free, That flush of heart, which I have known with thee So oft, so warmly; nights of mirth and mind, Of whims that taught, and follies that refin'd; When shall we both renew them ? when restor'd To the pure feast and intellectual board, Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine Those whims that teach, those follies that refine ? Even now, as wandering upon Erie's shore, I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar, I sigh for England-oh! these weary feet Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet!



Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now,

While yet my soul is something free;
While yet those dangerous eyes allow

One moment's thought to stray from thee! Oh! thou art every instant dearer

Every chance that brings me nigh thee, Brings my ruin nearer, nearer:

I am lost, unless I fly thee!
Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me,

Wish me not so soon to fall,
Duties, fame, and hopes await me,

Oh! that eye would blast them all!
Yes, yes, it would—for thou’rt as cold

As ever yet allur'd or sway'd,
And would'st, without a sigh, behold

The ruin which thyself had made !
Yet-could I think that, truly fond,

but once would smile on me, Good Heaven! how much, how far beyond

Fame, duty, hope, that smile would be! Oh! but to win it, night and day,

Inglorious at thy feet reclin'd, I'd sigh my dreams of fame away,

The world for thee forgot, resign'd! But no, no, no-farewell—we part,

Never to meet, no, never, never Oh, woman! what a mind and heart

Thy coldness has undone for ever!


TOOh! fair as Heaven and chaste as light ! Did Nature mould thee all so bright, That thou shouldst ever learn to weep O'er languid Virtue's fatal sleep, O'er shame extinguish’d, honour fled, Peace lost, heart wither'd, feeling dead? No, no—a star was born with thee, Which sheds eternal purity! Thou hast, within those sainted eyes, So fair a transcript of the skies,


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