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 splendour pours
That lights up all these leafy shores;
While his own heav'n, its clouds and beams,
So pictur'd in the waters lie,

That each small bark, in passing, seems
To float along a burning sky.

Oh for the pinnace lent to thee,'

Blest dreamer, who, in vision bright, Didst sail o'er heaven's solar sea

And touch at all its isles of light.
Sweet Venus, what a clime he found
Within thy orb's ambrosial round !2-
There spring the breezes, rich and warm,
That sigh around thy vesper car ;
And angels dwell, so pure of form

That each appears a living star.3
These are the sprites, celestial queen!
Thou sendest nightly to the bed
Of her I love, with touch unseen

Thy planet's bright'ning tints to shed; To lend that eye a light still clearer,

To give that cheek one rose-blush more, And bid that blushing lip be dearer,

Which had been all too dear before.

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.

LINES,

WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

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

Of her he loves

The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh
That rapture moves.

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, Lies mute and still.

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumb'ring with the dead to-morrow,
In the cold deep,

Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep.

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.

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 breath
No more shall move him.

beneath to a very great depth; and, as we entered the harbour, 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) hane asbestinam naviculam commoditati tuæ præparatam."- Itinerar. I. Dial. i. cap. 5. This work of Kircher abounds with strange fancies.

2 When the Genius of the world and his fellow-traveller arrive at the planet Venus, they find an island of loveliness, full of odours and intelligences, where angels preside, who shed the cosmetie influence of this planet over the earth; such being, according to astrologers, the "vis influxiva" of Venus. When they are in th part of the heavens, a casuistical question occurs to Theodidact and he asks," Whether baptism may be performed with the waar of Venus?"-" An aquis globi Veneris baptismus institul posest ?" to which the Genius answers," Certainly."

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

ODES TO NEA;

WRITTEN AT BERMUDA.

Oh! thou shalt be all else to me,
That heart can feel or tongue can feign;
I'll praise, admire, and worship thee,
But must not, dare not, love again.

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

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.

If there be climes, where never yet
The print of beauty's foot was set,
Where man may pass his loveless nights,
Unfever'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 priz'd when all my own,
Now float before me, soft and bright

As when they first enamouring shone,
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 perfum'd
The flame which thus my life consum'd;
And brilliant was the chain of flowers,
In which he led my victim-hours.

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!

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.

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.

Heard you the wish I dar'd to name,
To murmur on that luckless night,
When passion broke the bonds of shame,
And love grew madness in your sight?
Divinely 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.

Oh! how could others dare to touch

That hallow'd form with hands 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 threw, My trembling hands you lightly caught, And round me, like a spirit, flew.

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 dar'd 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.

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.

A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY.

I JUST had turn'd the classic page,

And trac'd that happy period over,

1 Gassendi thinks that the gardens, which Pausanias mentions, in his first book, were those of Epicurus; and Stuart says, in his Antiquities of Athens, "Near this convent (the convent of Hagios Asomatos) is the place called at present Kepoi, or the Gardens; and Ampelos Kepos, or the Vineyard Garden: these

When blest alike were youth and age,
And love inspir'd the wisest sage,

And wisdom grac'd the tenderest lover.

Before I laid me down to sleep,

Awhile I from the lattice gaz'd Upon that still and moonlight deep, With isles like floating gardens rais'd For Ariel there his sports to keep; While, gliding 'twixt their leafy shores, The lone night-fisher plied his oars. 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 breath'd the blissful air

That late had thrill'd to Sappho's sigh.

Thus, waking, dreamt I, — and when Sleep
Came o'er my sense, the dream went on;
Nor through her curtain dim and deep,
Hath ever lovelier vision shone.

I thought that, all enrapt, I stray'd
Through that serene, luxurious shade,'
Where Epicurus taught the Loves

To polish virtue's native brightness,
As pearls, we're told, that fondling doves
Have play'd with, wear a smoother whiteness.*
'Twas one of those delicious nights

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

And all is moonshine, balm, and peace.
And thou wert there, my own belov'd,
And by thy side I fondly rov'd
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 soothe or move,

To make the dullest love to learn,
To make the coldest learn to love.

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 illum'd 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,

were probably the gardens which Pansanias visited." Vel i chap. 2.

2 This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them awhile to be played with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Cardanos, de Rerum Varietat. lib. vii. cap. 34.

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.
And, Nea, thou wert by my side,
Though all this heav'n-ward path my guide.

Bat, lo, as wand'ring thus we rang'd
That upward path, the vision chang'd;
And now, methought, we stole along
Through halls of more voluptuous glory
Than ever liv'd in Teian song,

Or wanton'd in Milesian story.

And nymphs were there, whose very eyes
Seem'd soften'd o'er with breath of sighs;
Whose ev'ry ringlet, as it wreath'd,
A mute appeal to passion breath'd.
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

Entwin'd by snakes of burnish'd gold,
And showing charms, as loth 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 beegrape', round them wreathing,
Hung on their blushes warm and meek,
Lake curls upon a rosy cheek.

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!

1 In Hercynio Germaniæ saltu inusitata genera alitum acceus, quarum plume, ignium modo, colluceant noctibus.-Plin. lib. 1. cap. 47.

* The Milesiace, or Milesian fables, had their origin in Miletus, a ions town of Ionis. Aristides was the most celebrated author of these licentious fictions. See Plutarch (in Crasso), who calls them ashara Bißhis,

"Some of the Cretan wines, which Athenæus calls owoç avtooplas, from their fragrancy resembling that of the finest flowers."-Barry on Wines, chap. vii.

It appears that in very splendid mansions, the floor or pavement was frequently of onyx. Thus Martial: "Calcatusque tuo sub pede luret onyx." Epig. 50. lib. xii.

Bracelets of this shape were a favourite ornament among the Women of antiquity. Οι επικαρπιοι οφεις και αἱ χρυσαι πεδαι Θαιδος και Aurorayon, kai haidos tapuara.—Philostrat. Epist. xl. Lucian, too, tells us of the Spaxi &partes. See his Amores, where he describes the dresing-room of a Grecian lady, and we find the "silver vase," the rouge, the tooth-powder, and all the "mystic order" of a modern toilet.

Ο Ταραντινιδίου, διάφανες ένδυμα, ωνομασμένον από της Ταραντίνων KOTTEN KOL TAV.-Pollux.

WELL-peace to thy heart, though another's it be, And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me!

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 splendour for-
get.

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

roam

Through the lime-covered alley that leads to thy home,

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
say-

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.

If I were yonder conch of gold,
And thou the pearl within it plac'd,
I would not let an eye behold
The sacred gem my arms embrac❜d.

If I were yonder orange-tree,
And thou the blossom blooming there,
I would not yield a breath of thee
To scent the most imploring air.

7 Apiana, mentioned by Pliny, lib. xiv. and "now called the Muscatell (a muscarum telis)," says Pancirollus, book i. sect. 1. chap. 17.

s I had, at this time, some idea of paying a visit to the West Indies.

9 The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. See the commentators on the words "still-vex'd Bermoothes," in the Tempest. I wonder it did not occur to some of those all-reading gentlemen that, possibly, the discoverer of this "island of hogs and devils" might have been no less a personage than the great John Bermudez, who, about the same period (the beginning of the sixteenth century), was sent Patriarch of the Latin church to Ethiopia, and has left us most wonderful stories of the Amazons and the Griffins which he encountered. Travels of the Jesuits, vol. i. I am afraid, however, it would take the Patriarch rather too much out of his way.

10 Johnson does not think that Waller was ever at Bermuda; but the "Account of the European Settlements in America" affirms it confidently. (Vol. ii.) I mention this work. however, less for its authority than for the pleasure I feel in quoting an unacknowledged production of the great Edmund 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 pictur'd 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 belov'd! 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 thought, But thou art found reflected there.

THE

SNOW SPIRIT.

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep
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 never comes here.
The down from his wing is as white as the pearl
That shines through 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.

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.

The seaside or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies. 2 The Agave. This, I am aware, is an erroneous notion, but it is

Ενταύθα δε καθωρμισται ἡμῖν· και ό, τι μεν ονομα τη νησιά στα οιδα χρυση dav mos te pov ovoμafoiro, -PHILOSTRAT. Icon. 17. lib. ii.

I STOLE along the flowery bank,
While many a bending seagrape1 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!

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.

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.

Just where the margin's op'ning shade
A vista from the waters made,
My bird repos'd his silver plume
Upon a rich banana's bloom.
Oh vision bright! oh spirit fair!
What spell, what magic rais'd her there?
"Twas Nea! slumb'ring calm and mild,
And bloomy as the dimpled child,
Whose spirit in elysium keeps
Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps.

The broad banana's green embrace
Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace;
One little beam alone could win

The leaves to let it wander in,

quite true enough for poetry. Plato, I think, allows a poet to be "three removes from truth;" spirare; año vực Hàndemás.