Where late we thoughtless stray'd;

T was not for us, whom Heaven intends To be no more than simple friends, Such lonely walks were made.

That little bay where, winding in
From Ocean's rude and angry din

(As lovers steal to bliss),

The billows kiss the shore, and then Flow calmly to the deep again,

As though they did not kiss!

Remember, o'er its circling flood

In what a dangerous dream we stoodThe silent sea before us,

Around us, all the gloom of grove, That e'er was spread for guilt or love, No eye but Nature's o'er us!

I saw you blush, you felt me tremble,
In vain would formal art dissemble
All that we wish'd and thought;

Twas more than tongue could dare reveal,
Twas more than virtue ought to feel,
But all that passion ought!

I stoop'd to cull, with faltering hand,
A shell that, on the golden sand,

Before us faintly gleam'd;

I raised it to your lips of dew,

You kiss'd the shell, I kiss'd it too-
Good Heaven! how sweet it seem'd!

Oh! trust me, 't was a place, an hour,
The worst that e'er temptation's power
Could tangle me or you in!
Sweet Nea! let us roam no more
Along that wild and lonely shore,
Such walks will be our ruin!

You read it in my languid eyes,

And there alone should love be read;

You hear me say it all in sighs,

And thus alone should love be said.

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 dared 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 beamy glance,
As if to light your steps along!

Oh! how could others dare to touch
That ballow'd form with hand so free,
When but to look was bliss too much,
Too rare for all but Heaven 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, I wildly turn'd,

My soul forgot-nor, oh! condemn, That when such eyes before me burn'd, My soul forgot all eyes but them!

I dared to speak in sobs of bliss,

Rapture of every thought bereft me,

I would have clasp'd you-oh, even this!-
But, with a bound, you blushing left me.
Forget, forget that night's offence,
Forgive it, if, alas! you can;

T was love, 't was passion-soul and sense-
T was all the best and worst of man!

That moment did the mingled 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;
I should have-oh, my only love!
My life! what should I not have done?

A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY.

I JUST had turn'd the classic page,
And traced that happy period over,
When love could warm the proudest sage,

And wisdom grace the tenderest lover! Before I laid me down to sleep,

Upon the bank awhile I stood,
And saw the vestal planet weep

Her tears of light on Ariel's flood.
My heart was full of Fancy's dream,
And, as I watch'd the playful stream,
Entangling in its net of smiles
So fair a group of elfin isles,

I felt as if the scenery there

Were lighted by a Grecian skyAs if I breathed the blissful air

That yet was warm with Sapphio's sigh!

↑ Gassewer thinks that the gardens which Pausanias mentions, in his first Book, we e those of Epicurus; and STUART says, in his Antiquities of Athens, Near this convent (the convent of Hagios Assomatos) is the place called at present Kepoi, or the Gardens; and Ampelos Kepos, or the Vineyard Garden; these were probably the gardens which Pausanias visited. Chap. ii, vol. 1.

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

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!

Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink, Give not the wave that rosy sigh, Nor let its burning mirror drink

The soft reflection of thine eye.

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek, Upon the billows pour their beam So warmly, that my soul could seek Its Nea in the painted stream.

The painted stream my chilly grave And nuptial bed at once may be, I'll wed thee in that 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 beloved! where'er I turn,

Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes, In every star thy glances burn, Thy blush on every flow'ret lies.

But then thy breath!-not all the fire
That lights the lone Semenda's' death
In eastern climes, could e'er respire
An odour like thy dulcet breath!

I pray thee, on those lips of thine
To wear this rosy leaf for me,
And breathe of something not divine,
Since nothing human breathes of thee!

All other charms of thine I meet

In nature, but thy sigh alone; Then take, oh! take, though not so sweet, The breath of roses for thine own!

So while I walk the flowery grove,
The bud that gives, through morning dew,
The lustre of the lips I love,

May seem to give their perfume too!

ON SEEING AN INFANT IN NEA'S ARMS.

THE first ambrosial child of bliss

That Psyche to her bosom press'd,
Was not a brighter babe than this,
Nor blush'd upon a lovelier breast!
His little snow-white fingers, straying
Along her lip's luxuriant flower,
Look'd like a flight of ring-doves playing,
Silvery through a roseate bower!
And when, to shade the playful boy,

Her dark hair fell, in mazes bright,

' Referunt tamen quidam in interiore India avem esse, nomine Semendam, etc. CARDAN. 10 de Subtilitat. CESAR SCALIGER seems to think Semenda but another name for the Phoenix. Exercitat. 233.

Faint as the lids of maiden eyes
Beneath a lover's burning sighs!
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 snowy bird of blandishment,

To lead me, where my soul should meetI know not what, but something sweet!

Bless'd be 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,
Which, 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 opening shade
A vista from the waters made,
My bird reposed his silver plume
Upon a rich banana's bloom.
Oh, vision bright! oh, spirit fair!

What spell, what magic raised her there?
'T was Nea! slumbering 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,
And, stealing over all her charms,
From lip to cheek, from neck to arms,
It glanced around a fiery kiss,
All trembling, as it went, with bliss!

Her eyelid's black and silken fringe
Lay on her cheek, of vermil tinge,
Like the first ebon cloud that closes
Dark on Evening's Heaven of roses!
Her glances, though in slumber hid,
Seem'd glowing through their ivory lid,
And o'er her lip's reflecting dew
A soft and liquid lustre threw,
Such as, declining dim and faint,
The lamp of some beloved saint
Doth shed upon a flowery wreath,
Which pious hands have hung beneath.

Was ever witchery half so sweet! Think. think how all my pulses beat, As o'er the rustling bank I stole— Oh! you that know the lover's soul, It is for you to dream the bliss, The tremblings of an hour like this!

The Age. I know that this is an erroneous idea, but it is quite true enough for poetry, Pro, I think, allows a poet to be ⚫ three removes from truth; TfITATOS ATO THE dan Jelas.

ON THE LOSS OF A LETTER INTENDED FOR NEA.

OH! it was fill'd with words of flame,

With all the wishes wild and dear,

Which love may write, but dares not name,
Which woman reads, but must not hear!

Of many a nightly dream it told,
When all that chills the heart by day,
The worldly doubt, the caution cold,
In Fancy's fire dissolve away!
When soul and soul divinely meet,

Free from the senses guilty shame,
Aud mingle in a sigh so sweet,

As Virtue's self would blush to blame!

How could he lose such tender words! Words! that of themselves should spring To Nea's car, like panting birds,

With heart and soul upon their wing!

Oh! fancy what they dared to speak; Think all a virgin's shame can dread, Nor pause until thy couscious cheek Shall burn with thinking all they said!

And I shall feign, shall fancy, too,

Some dear reply thou might'st have given; Shall make that lip distil its dew

In promise bland and hopes of Heaven!

Shall think it tells of future days,

When the averted cheek will turn,

When eye with eye shall mingle rays, And lip to lip shall closely burn!

Ah! if this flattery is not thine,

If colder hope thy answer brings, I'll wish thy words were lost like mine,

Since I can dream such dearer things!

I FOUND her not-the chamber seem'd Like some divinely haunted place, Where fairy forms had lately beam'd, And left behind their odorous trace!

It felt as if her lips had shed

A sigh around her, ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air

Of melodies which had been there!

I saw the web, which, all the day, Had floated o'er her check of rose; I saw the couch, where late she lay In langour of divine repose!

And I could trace the hallow'd print

Her limbs had left, as pure and warm

Thou neer hast bid a ringlet shine,
Nor given thy locks one graceful twine,
Which I remember not'

There never yet a murmur fell

From that beguiling tongue, Which did not, with a lingering spell, Upon my charmed senses dwell,

Like something Heaven had sung'

Ah! that I could, at once, forget
All, all that haunts me so-
And yet, thou witching girl!—and yet
To die were sweeter, than to let
The loved remembrance go'

No, if this slighted heart must se

Its faithful pulse decay, Oh! let it die, remembering thee. And, like the burnt aroma, be Consumed in sweets away!

EPISTLE V.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

FROM BERMUDA.

March.

« THE daylight is gone-but, before we depart, One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,

PINSERTON has said that a good history and description of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the geographical library, but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissi tudes, the people have been so indoleat, and their trade so limited, that there is but little which the historian could amplify into importance; and, with respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to cultivate, are so common in the West Indies, that they have been described by every naturalist who has written any account of these islands.

It is often asserted by the trans-atlantic politicians, that this little colony deserves more attention from the mother-country than it receives, and it certainly possesses advantages of situation, to which we should not be long insensible if it were once in the hands of an enemy. I was told by a celebrated friend of Washington, at New York, that they had formed a plan for its capture, towards the conclusion of the American War; with the intention (as he expressed himself) of making it a nest of hornets for the annoyance of British trade in that part of the world.. And there is no doubt, it hes so fairly in the track to the West Indies, that an enemy might with ease convert it into a very harrassing impediment.

a more

The plan of Bishop Berkeley for a college at Bermuda, where American savages might be converted and educated, though concurred in by the government of the day, was a wild and useless specalation. Mr Hamilton, who was governor of the island some years since, proposed, if I mistake not, the establishment of a marine academy for the instruction of those children of West Indians, who might be intended for any nautical employment. This was rational idea, and for something of this nature the island is admirably calculated. But the plan should be much more extensive, and embrace a general system of education, which would entirely remove the alternative in which the colonists are involved at present, of either sending their sons to England for instruction, or entrusting them to colleges in the States of America, where ideas by no means favourable to Great Britain are very sedulously inculcated.

The women of Bermuda, though not generally handsome, have an affectionate langour in their look and manner, which is always interesting. What the French imply by their epithet aimante seems very much the character of the young Bermudian girls-that predisposition to loving, which, without being awakened by any particular object, diffuses itself through the general manner in a tone of tenderness that never fails to fascinate. The men of the island, I con