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.

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

more:

STANZAS.

θυμος δε ποτ' εμος --
το μέλι προσφωνεί ταδε

Γίνωσκε τανθρώπεια μη σεβείν αγαν.
ESCRYL. Fragment.

A BEAM of tranquillity smil'd in the west,

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.

It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circumstance which can tend to prove a kindred

ΤΟ

THE FLYING FISH.'

WHEN I have seen thy snow-white wing
From the blue wave at evening spring,
And show those scales of silvery white,
So gaily to the eye of light,
As if thy frame were form'd to rise,
And live amid the glorious skies;
Oh! it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent
Within this world's gross element,
But takes the wing that God has given,
And rises into light and heaven!

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.

IN days, my Kate, when life was new, When, lull'd with innocence and you,

similitude between them : συγγένειαν τους 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.

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,

1 Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into e 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 truvellers, 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.

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.
Thrice happy land! where he who flies
From the dark ills of other skies,
From scorn, or want's unnerving woes,
May shelter him in proud repose:
Hope sings along the yellow sand
His welcome to a patriot land;
The mighty wood, with pomp, receives
The stranger in its world of leaves,
Which soon their barren glory yield
To the warm shed and cultur'd field;
And he, who came, of all bereft,
To whom malignant fate had left
Nor home nor friends nor country dear,
Finds home and friends and country here.

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 imagin'd age of gold;
Alas, not yet one gleaming trace!1
Never did youth, who lov'd 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 trac'd 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,

? Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavourable specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are mot such as can delight either the politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk they are exhibited in their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived the yellow fever had not yet disappeared, an! every odour that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation.

One word at parting

Most sweet to you, and most my own.
The simple strain I send you here,1
Wild though it be, would charm your ear,
Did you but know the trance of thought
In which my mind its numbers caught.
'Twas one of those half-waking dreams,
That haunt me oft, when music seems
To bear my soul in sound along,
And turn its feelings all to song.
I thought of home, the according lays
Came full of dreams of other days;
Freshly in each succeeding note

I found some young remembrance float,
Till following, as a clue, that strain,
I wander'd back to home again.

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 yet
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.

A BALLAD.

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA.

"They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses." dth.

"La Poésie a ses monstres comme la nature."-D'ALEMBERT.

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,

"And her paddle I soon shall hear ; "Long and loving our life shall be, "And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, "When the footstep of death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds—
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before.

And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew,

He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear and nightly steep

The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake, And the copper-snake breath'd in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, "Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake.

"And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface play'd-
"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"
And the dim shore echoed, for many a night,
The name of the death-cold maid.

Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from shore ;

Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat return'd no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp
To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!

TO THE

MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

LADY! where'er you roam, whatever land
Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;
Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads ;‘
Enamour'd catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;

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 still in Switzerland, where the well-known powers of her pencil must have been frequently awakened.

Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,'
Where, many a night, the shade of Tell com-
plains

Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;
Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the canvass that creative eye,
And let its splendour, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

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.

1 The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne.

2 M. Gebelin says, in his Monde Primitif, “Lorsque Strabon crût que les anciens théologiens et portes plaçoient les champs Elysées 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. 3 Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbour of St. George's. The number of beautiful islets, the singular clearness of the water, and the animated play of the graceful little boats, gliding for ever 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.

Bright rose the morning, every wave was still,
When the first perfume of a cedar hill
Sweetly awak'd us, and, with smiling charms,
The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms.
Gently we stole, before the whisp'ring wind,
Through plaintain shades, that round, like awnings,
twin'd

And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails,
Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales;
While, far reflected o'er the wave serene,
Each wooded island shed so soft a green
That the enamour'd keel, with whisp'ring play,
Through liquid herbage seem'd to steal its way.

Never did weary bark more gladly glide, Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide! Along the margin, many a shining dome, White as the palace of a Lapland gnome, Brighten'd the wave ;-in every myrtle grove Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love, Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade; And, while the foliage interposing play'd, Lending the scene an ever-changing grace, Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,2 And dream of temples, till her kindling torch Lighted me back to all the glorious days Of Attic genius; and I seem'd 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 peet's call,
Delicate Ariel! who, in brighter hours,
Liv'd on the perfume of these honied bowers,
In velvet buds, at evening, lov'd 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 dimm'd 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,
The sparkling grotto can delight you still,

This is an allusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge in it, rendere the scenery of Bermuda particularly 17 teresting. 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 resel of a Claude might imitat. I had one favourite obiect of this kin 4 in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of. Ly 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.

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.

ΤΟ

GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ.

OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.!

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

Κείνη δ' ηνεμόεσσα και άτροπος, μια θ' άλιπληξ,
Αιόντης και μαλλον επιδρομος πεπερ ίπποις,
Пlours eveStypital.
CALLIMACH, Hymn in Del. v. 11.

OH, what a sea of storm we've pass'd! -
High mountain waves and foamy showers,
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: 2-
When close they reef'd the timid sail,
When, every plank complaining loud,
We labour'd in the midnight gale,

And ev❜n our haughty main-mast bow'd, Even then, in that unlovely hour,

The Muse still brought her soothing power,
And, midst the war of waves and wind,
In song's Elysium lapp'd my mind.
Nay, when no numbers of my own
Responded to her wakening tone,
She open'd, with her golden key,
The casket where my memory lays,
Those gems of classic poesy,

Which time has sav'd from ancient days.

Take one of these, to Lais sung,

--

I wrote it while my hammock swung,

This gentleman is attached to the British consulate at Norfolk. His talents are worthy of a much higher sphere; but the excellent dispositions of the family with whom he resides, and the cordial Tepose he enjoys amongst some of the kindest hearts in the world,

ld be almost enough to atone to him for the worst caprices of firtane. 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 his host, in the true spirit of a modern philosophist. See the Travels of the Duke de la Rochefoucault Liancourt, vol. ii.

We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, daring 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 sca-boat. She was then commanded by my very much regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July laat was killed aboard the Lilly in an action with a French privateer. Poor Compton! he fell a victim to the strange impolicy of

As one might write a dissertation
Upon "Suspended Animation!"

Sweet is your kiss, my Lais dear,
But, with that kiss I feel a tear
Gush from your eyelids, such as start
When those who've dearly lov'd must part.
Sadly you lean your head to mine,
And mute those arms around me twine,
Your hair adown my bosom spread,
All glittering with the tears you shed.
In vain I've kiss'd those lids of snow,
For still, like ceaseless founts they flow,
Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet.
Why is it thus ? do, tell me, sweet!
Ah, Lais! are my bodings right?
Am I to lose you? is to-night
Our last
go, false to heaven and me!
Your very tears are treachery.

SUCH, while in air I floating hung,
Such was the strain, Morgante mio!
The muse and I together sung,
With Boreas to make out the trio.
But, bless the little fairy isle !

How sweetly after all our ills,
We saw the sunny morning smile

Serenely o'er its fragrant hills;
And felt the pure, delicious flow
Of airs, that round this Eden blow
Freshly as ev'n the gales that come
O'er our own healthy hills at home.
Could you but view the scenery fair,

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.

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.

3 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.

Ήδη μεν εστι φίλημα το Λαίδος ήδν δε αυτών
Η πιοδινητων δακρυ χεις βλεφάρων,
Και πολυ κιχλίζουσα σοθεις ευβοστρυχον αιγλην,
Ημετέρα κεφαλην δηρον ερεισαμένη,
Μυρομενην δ' εφίλησα τα δ' ώς δροσερης από πηγής,
Δάκρυα μίγνυμένων πιπτε κατα στομάτων
Είπε δ' ανειρομένῳ, τινος ούνεκα δάκρυα λείβεις ;
Δείδια μη με λύπης εστε γαρ όρκα παται

4 The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks are seen