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?” I knew not then that Fate had lent Such tones to one of mortal birth; 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 Upon a rose's bosom lying ! Though form and song at once combin'd 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 Are realiz'd, at once, in thee! LINES, WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALLS OF 'Mid the moist azure of her eyes, THE MOHAWK RIVER." Gia era in loco ove s'udia 'l rimbombo Dante. FROM rise of morn till set of sun, 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 ; 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 smil'd, 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, Yet, sometimes turning with the wind, important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find in Pausanias, that this valley supplied the branches, As to leave one look behind! of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, “ The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a 1 There is a dreary and savage character in the country player on the flute.” Aan de lemn x40 TW Támour COUTI saido immediately above these Falls, which is much more in harτην Τεμπικην δαφνην εις Δελφος 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. * * a Oh! I have thought, and thinking, sigh'd- 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! TO MISS WITH Woman's form and woman's tricks One knows not where to take you; Or what she meant to make you. Yet stay-you need not take the pains- TO UN HER ASKING ME TO ADDRESS A POEM TO HER. Sine venere friget Apollo. 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! Think'st thou, when JULIA's lip and breast I coldly spoke of lips unprest, Nor felt the heaven I sung? No, no, the spell, that warm'd so long, And still the girl was paid, in song, What she had giv'n in bliss! Let me but feel a breath from thee, And I will praise thy sighs. That rosy mouth alone can bring SONG OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS.1 Now the vapour, hot and damp, 1 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 adjacent 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 previously 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." 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 The myrtle wither'd as she breath'd' Oh! you that love's celestial dream, In all its purity, would know, 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!' Lone beneath a roof of blood, 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, 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.) Thou risest to a cloudless pole! Or, lingering here, dost love to mark 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 Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain, suggested by the senator Buonarotti, in his “Osservazioni sopra 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, upon this supposition, for the silence of the more ancient Say, Love! in all thy spring of fame, 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. 1. p. 156. 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.” Deja, dit-il,” etc. etc. The Psyche of Petronius, however, See Charlevoix's Letter on the Traditions and the Religion is a 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. ܪ 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! Take Christians, Mohawks, Democrats and all From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall, From man the savage, whether slav'd or free, To man the civiliz'd, less tame than he! "Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife Where every ill the ancient world can brew Is mix'd with every grossness of the new; Where all corrupts though little can entice, And nothing 's known of luxury, but vice! Is this the region then, is this the clime For golden fancy ? for those dreams sublime, Which all their miracles of light reveal To heads that meditate and hearts that feel? And climbs the mountain ; every blooming spot Burns with her step, yet man regards it not! TO THE HONOURABLE W. R. SPENCER, She whispers round, her words are in the air, But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there, Without one breath of soul, divinely strong, 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 with No 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, Í 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, Yet have I known a gentle maid 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! Ω ΠΑΤΡΙΣ, ΩΣ ΣΟΥ ΚΑΡΤΑ ΝΥΝ ΜΝΕΙΑΝ ΕΧΩ. Euripides. TO While yet my soul is something free; 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! Wish me not so soon to fall, Oh! that eye would blast them all! As ever yet allur'd or sway'd, The ruin which thyself had made ! That eye 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! A WARNING TO Oh! fair as Heaven and chaste as light ! s |