book x
., and which Barnes, from the similarity of their tendency, has combined into one. I think this a very justifiable liberty, and have adopted it in some other fragments of our poet.
[2] It was Amphictyon who first taught the Greeks to mix water with their wine; in commemoration of which circumstance they erected altars to Bacchus and the nymphs.
ODE LXIII.[1]
To Love, the soft and blooming child, I touch the harp in descant wild; To Love, the babe of Cyprian bowers, The boy, who breathes and blushes flowers; To Love, for heaven and earth adore him, And gods and mortals bow before him!
[1] "This fragment is preserved in Clemens Alexandrinus, Storm, lib. vi. and In Arsenius, Collect. Graec."--BARNES.
It appears to have been the opening of a hymn in praise of Love.
ODE LXIV.[1]
Haste thee, nymph, whose well-aimed spear Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer! Dian, Jove's immortal child, Huntress of the savage wild! Goddess with the sun-bright hair! Listen to a people's prayer. Turn, to Lethe's river turn, There thy vanquished people mourn![2] Come to Lethe's wavy shore, Tell them they shall mourn no more. Thine their hearts, their altars thine; Must they, Dian--must they pine?
[1] This hymn to Diana is extant in Hephaestion. There is an anecdote of our poet, which has led some to doubt whether he ever wrote any odes of this kind. It is related by the Scholiast upon Pindar (Isthmionic. od. ii. v. 1. as cited by Barnes) that Anaecreon being asked why he addressed all his hymns to women, and none to the deities? answered, "Because women are my deities."
I have assumed, it will be seen, in reporting this anecdote, the same liberty which I have thought it right to take in translating some of the odes; and it were to be wished that these little infidelities were always allowable in interpreting the writings of the ancients.
[2] Lethe, a river of Iona, according to Strabo, falling into the Meander. In its neighborhood was the city called Magnesia, in favor of whose inhabitants our poet is supposed to have addressed this supplication to Diana. It was written (as Madame Dacier conjectures) on the occasion of some battle, in which the Magnesians had been defeated.
ODE LXV.[1]
Like some wanton filly sporting, Maid Of Thrace, thou flyest my courting. Wanton filly! tell me why Thou trip'st away, with scornful eye, And seem'st to think my doating heart Is novice in the bridling art? Believe me, girl, it is not so; Thou'lt find this skilful hand can throw The reins around that tender form, However wild, however warm. Yes--trust me I can tame thy force, And turn and wind thee in the course. Though, wasting now thy careless hours, Thou sport amid the herbs and flowers, Soon shalt thou feel the rein's control, And tremble at the wished-for goal!
[1] This ode, which is addressed to some Thracian girl, exists in Heraclides, and has been imitated very frequently by Horace, as all the annotators have remarked. Madame Dacier rejects the allegory, which runs so obviously through the poem, and supposes it to have been addressed to a young mare belonging to Polycrates.
Pierius, in the fourth book of his "Hieroglyphics," cites this ode, and informs us that the horse was the hieroglyphical emblem of pride.
ODE LXVI.[1]
To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine, Fairest of all that fairest shine; To thee, who rulest with darts of fire This world of mortals, young Desire! And oh! thou nuptial Power, to thee Who bearest of life the guardian key, Breathing my soul in fervent praise, And weaving wild my votive lays, For thee, O Queen! I wake the lyre, For thee, thou blushing young Desire, And oh! for thee, thou nuptial Power, Come, and illume this genial hour.
Look on thy bride, too happy boy, And while thy lambent glance of joy Plays over all her blushing charms, Delay not, snatch her to thine arms, Before the lovely, trembling prey, Like a young birdling, wing away! Turn, Stratocles, too happy youth, Dear to the Queen of amorous truth, And dear to her, whose yielding zone Will soon resign her all thine own. Turn to Myrilla, turn thine eye, Breathe to Myrilla, breathe thy sigh. To those bewitching beauties turn; For thee they blush, for thee they burn.
Not more the rose, the queen of flowers, Outblushes all the bloom of bowers Than she unrivalled grace discloses, The sweetest rose, where all are roses. Oh! may the sun, benignant, shed His blandest influence o'er thy bed; And foster there an infant tree, To bloom like her, and tower like thee!
[1] This ode is introduced in the Romance of Theodorus Prodromus, and is that kind of epithalamium which was sung like a scolium at the nuptial banquet.
ODE LXVII.
Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn The wealth of Amalthea's horn; Nor should I ask to call the throne Of the Tartessian prince my own;[1] To totter through his train of years, The victim of declining fears. One little hour of joy to me Is worth a dull eternity!
[1] He here alludes to Arganthonius, who lived, according to Lucian, an hundred and fifty years; and reigned, according to Herodotus, eighty.
ODE LXVIII.
Now Neptune's month our sky deforms, The angry night-cloud teems with storms; And savage winds, infuriate driven, Fly howling in the face of heaven! Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom With roseate rays of wine illume: And while our wreaths of parsley spread Their fadeless foliage round our head, Let's hymn the almighty power of wine, And shed libations on his shrine!
ODE LXIX.
They wove the lotus band to deck And fan with pensile wreath each neck; And every guest, to shade his head, Three little fragrant chaplets spread;[1] And one was of the Egyptian leaf, The rest were roses, fair and brief: While from a golden vase profound, To all on flowery beds around, A Hebe, of celestial shape, Poured the rich droppings of the grape!
[1] Longepierre, to give an idea of the luxurious estimation in which garlands were held by the ancients, relates an anecdote of a courtezan, who, in order to gratify three lovers, without leaving cause for Jealousy with any of them, gave a kiss to one, let the other drink after her, and put a garland on the brow of the third; so that each was satisfied with his favor, and flattered himself with the preference.
ODE LXX.
A broken cake, with honey sweet, Is all my spare and simple treat: And while a generous bowl I crown To float my little banquet down, I take the soft, the amorous lyre, And sing of love's delicious fire: In mirthful measures warm and free, I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee!
ODE LXXI.
With twenty chords my lyre is hung, And while I wake them all for thee, Thou, O maiden, wild and young, Disportest in airy levity.
The nursling fawn, that in some shade Its antlered mother leaves behind, Is not more wantonly afraid, More timid of the rustling wind!
ODE LXXII.
Fare thee well, perfidious maid, My soul, too long on earth delayed, Delayed, perfidious girl, by thee, Is on the wing for liberty. I fly to seek a kindlier sphere, Since thou hast ceased to love me here!
ODE LXXIII.
Awhile I bloomed, a happy flower, Till love approached one fatal hour, And made my tender branches feel The wounds of his avenging steel. Then lost I fell, like some poor willow That falls across the wintry billow!
ODE LXXIV.
Monarch Love, resistless boy, With whom the rosy Queen of Joy, And nymphs, whose eyes have Heaven's hue, Disporting tread the mountain-dew; Propitious, oh! receive my sighs, Which, glowing with entreaty, rise That thou wilt whisper to the breast Of her I love thy soft behest: And counsel her to learn from thee. That lesson thou hast taught to me. Ah! if my heart no flattery tell, Thou'lt own I've learned that lesson well!
ODE LXXV.
Spirit of Love, whose locks unrolled, Stream on the breeze like floating gold; Come, within a fragrant cloud Blushing with light, thy votary shroud; And, on those wings that sparkling play, Waft, oh, waft me hence away! Love! my soul is full of thee, Alive to all thy luxury. But she, the nymph for whom I glow The lovely Lesbian mocks my woe; Smiles at the chill and hoary hues That time upon my forehead strews. Alas! I fear she keeps her charms, In store for younger, happier arms!
ODE LXXVI.
Hither, gentle Muse of mine, Come and teach thy votary old Many a golden hymn divine, For the nymph with vest of gold.
Pretty nymph, of tender age, Fair thy silky looks unfold; Listen to a hoary sage, Sweetest maid with vest of gold!
ODE LXXVII.
Would that I were a tuneful lyre, Of burnished ivory fair, Which, in the Dionysian choir, Some blooming boy should bear!
Would that I were a golden vase. That some bright nymph might hold My spotless frame, with blushing grace, Herself as pure as gold!
ODE LXXVIII.
When Cupid sees how thickly now, The snows of Time fall o'er my brow, Upon his wing of golden light. He passes with an eaglet's flight, And flitting onward seems to say, "Fare thee well, thou'st had thy day!"
Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray, That lights our life's meandering way, That God, within this bosom stealing, Hath wakened a strange, mingled feeling. Which pleases, though so sadly teasing, And teases, though so sweetly pleasing!
* * * * *
Let me resign this wretched breath Since now remains to me No other balm than kindly death, To soothe my misery!
* * * * *
I know thou lovest a brimming measure, And art a kindly, cordial host; But let me fill and drink at pleasure-- Thus I enjoy the goblet most.
I fear that love disturbs my rest, Yet feel not love's impassioned care; I think there's madness in my breast Yet cannot find that madness there!
* * * * *
From dread Leucadia's frowning steep, I'll plunge into the whitening deep: And there lie cold, to death resigned, Since Love intoxicates my mind!
* * * * *
Mix me, child, a cup divine, Crystal water, ruby wine; Weave the frontlet, richly flushing O'er my wintry temples blushing. Mix the brimmer--Love and I Shall no more the contest try. Here--upon this holy bowl, I surrender all my soul!
SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.
HERE AT THY TOMB.
BY MELEAGER.
Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed, Tears, which though vainly now they roll, Are all love hath to give the dead, And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;--
Wept in remembrance of that light. Which naught on earth, without thee, gives, Hope of my heart! now quenched in night, But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.
Where is she? where the blooming bough That once my life's sole lustre made? Torn off by death, 'tis withering now, And all its flowers in dust are laid.
Oh earth! that to thy matron breast Hast taken all those angel charms, Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,-- Gently, as in a mother's arms.
SALE OF CUPID.
BY MELEAGER.
Who'll buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he, Fast asleep, sly rogue on his mother's knee; So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep, So I'll part with him now, while he's sound asleep. See his arch little nose, how sharp 'tis curled, His wings, too, even in sleep unfurled; And those fingers, which still ever ready are found For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound.
He'll try with his tears your heart to beguile, But never you mind--he's laughing all the while; For little he cares, so he has his own whim, And weeping or laughing are all one to him. His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash, His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash; And so savage is he, that his own dear mother Is scarce more safe in his hands than another.
In short, to sum up this darling's praise, He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways; And if any one wants such an imp to employ, He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy. But see, the boy wakes--his bright tears flow-- His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? oh no, Sweet child no, no--though so naughty you be, You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.
TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE.
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.
To weave a garland for the rose. And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be, Were far less vain than to suppose That silks and gems add grace to thee. Where is the pearl whose orient lustre Would not, beside thee, look less bright? What gold could match the glossy cluster Of those young ringlets full of light?
Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams, The bright blue gem of India's mine, And see how soon, though bright its beams, 'Twill pale before one glance of thine: Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us With some divine, mellifluous air, Who would not say that Beauty's cestus Had let loose all its witcheries there?
Here, to this conquering host of charms I now give up my spell-bound heart. Nor blush to yield even Reason's arms, When thou her bright-eyed conqueror art. Thus to the wind all fears are given; Henceforth those eyes alone I see. Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven, Sits beckoning me to bliss and thee!
WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.
Why does she so long delay? Night is waning fast away; Thrice have I my lamp renewed, Watching here in solitude, Where can she so long delay? Where, so long delay?
Vainly now have two lamps shone; See the third is nearly gone: Oh that Love would, like the ray Of that weary lamp, decay! But no, alas, it burns still on, Still, still, burns on.
Gods, how oft the traitress dear Swore, by Venus, she'd be here! But to one so false as she What is man or deity? Neither doth this proud one fear,-- No, neither doth she fear.
TWIN'ST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATH THY BROW?
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.
Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow? Such glory then thy beauty sheds, I almost think, while awed I bow 'Tis Rhea's self before me treads. Be what thou wilt,--this heart Adores whate'er thou art!
Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave, Like sunny waves to wander free? Then, such a chain of charms they weave, As draws my inmost soul from me. Do what thou wilt,--I must Be charm'd by all thou dost!
Even when, enwrapt in silvery veils, Those sunny locks elude the sight,-- Oh, not even then their glory fails To haunt me with its unseen light. Change as thy beauty may, It charms in every way.
For, thee the Graces still attend, Presiding o'er each new attire, And lending every dart they send Some new, peculiar touch of fire, Be what thou wilt,--this heart Adores what'er thou art!
WHEN THE SAD WORD.
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.
When the sad word, "Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling, And with it, Hope passes away, Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling That fatal farewell, bids me stay, For oh! 'tis a penance so weary One hour from thy presence to be, That death to this soul were less dreary, Less dark than long absence from thee.
Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking. Brings life to the heart it shines o'er, And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking, Made light what was darkness before. But mute is the Day's sunny glory, While thine hath a voice, on whose breath, More sweet than the Syren's sweet story, My hopes hang, through life and through death!
MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.
BY PHILODEMUS.
My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown, But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down, And, for blushing, no rose can come near her; In short, she has woven such nets round my heart, That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,-- Unless I can find one that's dearer.
Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear, And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear, That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her; Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net, And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget-- Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.
But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone, 'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone From the depths of the grave could revive one: In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom, I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb-- Unless I could meet with a live
STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING.
BY MELEAGER.
Still, like dew in silence falling, Drops for thee the nightly tear Still that voice the past recalling, Dwells, like echo, on my ear, Still, still!
Day and night the spell hangs o'er me, Here forever fixt thou art: As thy form first shone before me, So 'tis graven on this heart, Deep, deep!
Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness, Dooms me to this lasting pain. Thou who earnest with so much fleetness, Why so slow to go again? Why? why?
UP, SAILOR BOY, 'TIS DAY.
Up, sailor boy, 'tis day! The west wind blowing, The spring tide flowing, Summon thee hence away. Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing? Chirp, chirp,--in every note he seemed to say 'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring. Up boy, away,-- Who'd stay on land to-day? The very flowers Would from their bowers Delight to wing away!
Leave languid youths to pine On silken pillows; But be the billows Of the great deep thine. Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, "Let us fly;" While soft the sail, replying to the breeze, Says, with a yielding sigh, "Yes, where you; please." Up, boy, the wind, the ray, The blue sky o'er thee, The deep before thee, All cry aloud, "Away!"
IN MYRTLE WREATHS.
BY ALCAEUS.
In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover, Like them of old whose one immortal blow Struck off the galling fetters that hung over Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low. Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying; Still midst the brave and free, In isles, o'er ocean lying, Thy home shall ever be.
In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning, Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;' And in the dust a despot victim laid. Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story Your wedded names shall be; A tyrant's death your glory, Your meed, a nation free!
JUVENILE POEMS.
1801.
TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.
MY DEAR SIR,
I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of our friend LITTLE'S Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose; but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the consequence is you have them in their original form:
_non possunt nostros multae, Faustine, liturae emendare jocos; una litura potest_.
I am convinced, however, that, though not quite a _casuiste relâché_, you have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know that the pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive Juvenilia which he published under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of Bembo's poems prevent him from making a very good cardinal.
Believe me, my dear friend.
With the truest esteem,
Yours,
T. M.
_April 19, 1802_
JUVENILE POEMS
FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.
_Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus_.--JUV.
Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line, Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine, How heavy sits that weight, of alien show, Like martial helm upon an infant's brow; Those borrowed splendors whose contrasting light Throws back the native shades in deeper night.
Ask the proud train who glory's train pursue, Where are the arts by which that glory grew? The genuine virtues with that eagle-gaze Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze! Where is the heart by chymic truth refined, The exploring soul whose eye had read mankind? Where are the links that twined, with heavenly art, His country's interest round the patriot's heart?
* * * * *
_Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in armis relinquitur spes_.--LIVY.
* * * * *
Is there no call, no consecrating cause Approved by Heav'n, ordained by nature's laws, Where justice flies the herald of our way, And truth's pure beams upon the banners play?
Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath To slumbering babes or innocence in death; And urgent as the tongue of Heaven within, When the mind's balance trembles upon sin.
Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet An echo in the soul's most deep retreat; Along the heart's responding chords should run, Nor let a tone there vibrate--but the one!
VARIETY.
Ask what prevailing, pleasing power Allures the sportive, wandering bee To roam untired, from flower to flower, He'll tell you, 'tis variety.
Look Nature round; her features trace, Her seasons, all her changes see; And own, upon Creation's face, The greatest charm's variety.
For me, ye gracious powers above! Still let me roam, unfixt and free; In all things,--but the nymph I love I'll change, and taste variety.
But, Patty, not a world of charms Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;-- No, let me ever seek those arms. There still I'll find variety.
TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH,
WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND
Is it not sweet, beloved youth, To rove through Erudition's bowers, And cull the golden fruits of truth, And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers?
And is it not more sweet than this, To feel thy parents' hearts approving, And pay them back in sums of bliss The dear, the endless debt of loving?
It must be so to thee, my youth; With this idea toil is lighter; This sweetens all the fruits of truth, And makes the flowers of fancy brighter.
The little gift we send thee, boy, May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder, If indolence or siren joy Should ever tempt that soul to wander.
'Twill tell thee that the wingèd day Can, ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavor; That life and time shall fade away, While heaven and virtue bloom forever!
SONG.
If I swear by that eye, you'll allow, Its look is so shifting and new, That the oath I might take on it now The very next glance would undo.
Those babies that nestle so sly Such thousands of arrows have got, That an oath, on the glance of an eye Such as yours, may be off in a shot.
Should I swear by the dew on your lip, Though each moment the treasure renews, If my constancy wishes to trip, I may kiss off the oath when I choose.
Or a sigh may disperse from that flower; Both the dew and the oath that are there; And I'd make a new vow every hour, To lose them so sweetly in air.
But clear up the heaven of your brow, Nor fancy my faith is a feather; On my heart I will pledge you my vow, And they both must be broken together!
TO .......
Remember him thou leavest behind, Whose heart is warmly bound to thee, Close as the tenderest links can bind A heart as warm as heart can be.
Oh! I had long in freedom roved, Though many seemed my soul to snare; 'Twas passion when I thought I loved, 'Twas fancy when I thought them fair.
Even she, my muse's early theme, Beguiled me only while she warmed; Twas young desire that fed the dream, And reason broke what passion formed.
But thou-ah! better had it been If I had still in freedom roved, If I had ne'er thy beauties seen, For then I never should have loved.
Then all the pain which lovers feel Had never to this heart been known; But then, the joys that lovers steal, Should _they_ have ever been my own?
Oh! trust me, when I swear thee this, Dearest! the pain of loving thee, The very pain is sweeter bliss Than passion's wildest ecstasy.
That little cage I would not part, In which my soul is prisoned now, For the most light and winged heart That wantons on the passing vow.
Still, my beloved! still keep in mind, However far removed from me, That there is one thou leavest behind, Whose heart respires for only thee!
And though ungenial ties have bound Thy fate unto another's care, That arm, which clasps thy bosom round, Cannot confine the heart that's there.
No, no! that heart is only mine By ties all other ties above, For I have wed it at a shrine Where we have had no priest but Love.
SONG.
When Time who steals our years away Shall steal our pleasures too, The memory of the past will stay And half our joys renew, Then, Julia, when thy beauty's flower Shall feel the wintry air, Remembrance will recall the hour When thou alone wert fair. Then talk no more of future gloom; Our joys shall always last; For Hope shall brighten days to come, And Memory gild the past.
Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, I drink to Love and thee: Thou never canst decay in soul, Thou'lt still be young for me. And as thy; lips the tear-drop chase, Which on my cheek they find, So hope shall steal away the trace That sorrow leaves behind. Then fill the bowl--away with gloom! Our joys shall always last; For Hope shall brighten days to come, And Memory gild the past.
But mark, at thought of future years When love shall lose its soul, My Chloe drops her timid tears, They mingle with my bowl. How like this bowl of wine, my fair, Our loving life shall fleet; Though tears may sometimes mingle there, The draught will still be sweet. Then fill the cup--away with gloom! Our joys shall always last; For Hope will brighten days to come, And Memory gild the past.
SONG.
Have you not seen the timid tear, Steal trembling from mine eye? Have you not marked the flush of fear, Or caught the murmured sigh? And can you think my love is chill, Nor fixt on you alone? And can you rend, by doubting still, A heart so much your own?
To you my soul's affections move, Devoutly, warmly true; My life has been a task of love, One long, long thought of you. If all your tender faith be o'er, If still my truth you'll try; Alas, _I_ know but _one_ proof more-- I'll bless your name, and die!
REUBEN AND ROSE.
A TALE OF ROMANCE.
The darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls Had long been remembered with awe and dismay; For years not a sunbeam had played in its halls, And it seemed as shut out from the regions of day.
Though the valleys were brightened by many a beam, Yet none could the woods of that castle illume; And the lightning which flashed on the neighboring stream Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom!
"Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse!" Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave;-- "It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse, "Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!"
And who was the bright star of chivalry then? Who _could_ be but Reuben, the flower of the age? For Reuben was first in the combat of men, Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page.
For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat, For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn, When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet, It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn.
Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever? Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave, That darkness should cover that castle forever, Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave!
To the wizard she flew, saying, "Tell me, oh, tell? Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes?" "Yes, yes--when a spirit shall toll the great bell Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!"
Twice, thrice he repeated "Your Reuben shall rise!" And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain; And wiped, while she listened, the tears from her eyes. And hoped she might yet see her hero again.
That hero could smite at the terrors of death, When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose; To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath, In the depth of the billows soon found his repose.--
How strangely the order of destiny falls! Not long in the waters the warrior lay, When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls, And the castle of Willumberg basked in the ray!
All, all but the soul of the maid was in light, There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank: Two days did she wander, and all the long night, In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank.
Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, And heard but the breathings of night in the air; Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, And saw but the foam of the white billow there.
And often as midnight its veil would undraw, As she looked at the light of the moon in the stream, She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw, As the curl of the surge glittered high in the beam.
And now the third night was begemming the sky; Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclined, There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye, When--hark!--'twas the bell that came deep in the wind!
She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade, A form o'er the waters in majesty glide; She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was decayed, And his helmet of silver was washed by the tide.
Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold?-- Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam; 'Twas Reuben, but, ah! he was deathly and cold, And fleeted away like the spell of a dream!
Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought From the bank to embrace him, but vain her endeavor! Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught, And sunk to repose on its bosom forever!
DID NOT.
'Twas a new feeling--something more Than we had dared to own before. Which then we hid not; We saw it in each other's eye, And wished, in every half-breathed sigh, To speak, but did not.
She felt my lips' impassioned touch-- 'Twas the first time I dared so much, And yet she chid not; But whispered o'er my burning brow, "Oh! do you doubt I love you now?" Sweet soul! I did not.
Warmly I felt her bosom thrill, I prest it closer, closer still, Though gently bid not; Till--oh! the world hath seldom heard Of lovers, who so nearly erred, And yet, who did not.
TO .......
That wrinkle, when first I espied it, At once put my heart out of pain; Till the eye, that was glowing beside it, Disturbed my ideas again.
Thou art just in the twilight at present, When woman's declension begins; When, fading from all that is pleasant, She bids a good night to her sins.
Yet thou still art so lovely to me, I would sooner, my exquisite mother! Repose in the sunset of thee, Than bask in the noon of another.
TO MRS. .......
ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER.
Is not thy mind a gentle mind? Is not that heart a heart refined? Hast thou not every gentle grace, We love in woman's mind and face? And, oh! art _thou_ a shrine for Sin To hold her hateful worship in?
No, no, be happy--dry that tear-- Though some thy heart hath harbored near, May now repay its love with blame; Though man, who ought to shield thy fame, Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee; Though all the world look cold upon thee, Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still Unharmed by that surrounding chill; Like the famed drop, in crystal found,[1] Floating, while all was frozen round,-- Unchilled unchanging shalt thou be, Safe in thy own sweet purity.
[1] This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure water enclosed within a piece of crystal. Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind at Milan; and adds; "It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vendöme in France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen".
ANACREONTIC.
--_in lachrymas verterat omne merum_. TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5.
Press the grape, and let it pour Around the board its purple shower: And, while the drops my goblet steep, I'll think in woe the clusters weep.
Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine! Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine. Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow, I'll taste the luxury of woe.
TO .......
When I loved you, I can't but allow I had many an exquisite minute; But the scorn that I feel for you now Hath even more luxury in it.
Thus, whether we're on or we're off, Some witchery seems to await you; To love you was pleasant enough, And, oh! 'tis delicious hate you!
TO JULIA.
IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.
Why, let the stingless critic chide With all that fume of vacant pride Which mantles o'er the pendant fool, Like vapor on a stagnant pool. Oh! if the song, to feeling true, Can please the elect, the sacred few, Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught, Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought-- If some fond feeling maid like thee, The warm-eyed child of Sympathy, Shall say, while o'er my simple theme She languishes in Passion's dream, "He was, indeed, a tender soul-- No critic law, no chill control, Should ever freeze, by timid art, The flowings of so fond a heart!" Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love! That, hovering like a snow-winged dove, Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild, And hailed me Passion's warmest child,-- Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye, From Feeling's breast the votive sigh; Oh! let my song, my memory find, A shrine within the tender mind! And I will smile when critics chide, And I will scorn the fume of pride Which mantles o'er the pendant fool, Like vapor round some stagnant pool!
TO JULIA.
Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream, A dream, I find, illusory as sweet: One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem, Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!
I've heard you oft eternal truth declare; Your heart was only mine, I once believed. Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air? And _must_ I say, my hopes were all deceived?
Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal; Julia!--'tis pity, pity makes you kind; You know I love, and you would _seem_ to feel.
But shall I still go seek within those arms A joy in which affection takes no part? No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms, When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.
THE SHRINE.
TO .......
My fates had destined me to rove A long, long pilgrimage of love; And many an altar on my way Has lured my pious steps to stay; For if the saint was young and fair, I turned, and sung my vespers there. This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire, Is what your pretty saints require: To pass, nor tell a single bead, With them would be profane indeed! But, trust me, all this young devotion Was but to keep my zeal in motion; And, every humbler altar past, I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!
TO A LADY,
WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS,
ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY.
When, casting many a look behind, I leave the friends I cherish here-- Perchance some other friends to find, But surely finding none so dear--
Haply the little simple page, Which votive thus I've traced for thee, May now and then a look engage, And steal one moment's thought for me.
But, oh! in pity let not those Whose hearts are not of gentle mould, Let not the eye that seldom flows With feeling's tear, my song behold.
For, trust me, they who never melt With pity, never melt with love; And such will frown at all I've felt, And all my loving lays reprove.
But if, perhaps, some gentler mind, Which rather loves to praise than blame, Should in my page an interest find. And linger kindly on my name;
Tell him--or, oh! if, gentler still, By female lips my name be blest: For where do all affections thrill So sweetly as in woman's breast?--
Tell her, that he whose loving themes Her eye indulgent wanders o'er, Could sometimes wake from idle dreams, And bolder flights of fancy soar;
That Glory oft would claim the lay, And Friendship oft his numbers move; But whisper then, that, "sooth to say, His sweetest song was given to Love!"
TO JULIA.
Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part, Our souls it cannot, shall not sever; The heart will seek its kindred heart, And cling to it as close as ever.
But must we, must we part indeed? Is all our dream of rapture over? And does not Julia's bosom bleed To leave so dear, so fond a lover?
Does _she_, too, mourn?--Perhaps she may; Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting; But why is Julia's eye so gay, If Julia's heart like mine is beating?
I oft have loved that sunny glow Of gladness in her blue eye beaming-- But can the bosom bleed with woe While joy is in the glances beaming?
No, no!--Yet, love, I will not chide; Although your heart _were_ fond of roving, Nor that, nor all the world beside Could keep your faithful boy from loving.
You'll soon be distant from his eye, And, with you, all that's worth possessing. Oh! then it will be sweet to die, When life has lost its only blessing!
TO .......
Sweet lady, look not thus again: Those bright, deluding smiles recall A maid remember'd now with pain, Who was my love, my life, my all!
Oh! while this heart bewildered took Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she smile and lisp and look, And I would hear and gaze and sigh!
Yes, I did love her--wildly love-- She was her sex's best deceiver! And oft she swore she'd never rove-- And I was destined to believe her!
Then, lady, do not wear the smile Of one whose smile could thus betray; Alas! I think the lovely wile Again could steal my heart away.
For, when those spells that charmed my mind On lips so pure as thine I see, I fear the heart which she resigned Will err again and fly to thee!
NATURE'S LABELS.
A FRAGMENT.
In vain we fondly strive to trace The soul's reflection in the face; In vain we dwell on lines and crosses, Crooked mouth or short proboscis; Boobies have looked as wise and bright As Plato or the Stagirite: And many a sage and learned skull Has peeped through windows dark and dull. Since then, though art do all it can, We ne'er can reach the inward man, Nor (howsoe'er "learned Thebans" doubt) The inward woman, from without, Methinks 'twere well if nature could (And Nature could, if Nature would) Some pithy, short descriptions write On tablets large, in black and white, Which she might hang about our throttles, Like labels upon physic-bottles; And where all men might read--but stay-- As dialectic sages say, The argument most apt and ample For common use is the example. For instance, then, if Nature's care Had not portrayed, in lines so fair, The inward soul of Lucy Lindon. _This_ is the label she'd have pinned on.
LABEL FIRST.
Within this form there lies enshrined The purest, brightest gem of mind. Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw Upon its charms the shade of woe, The lustre of the gem, when veiled, Shall be but mellowed, not concealed.
* * * * *
Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able, That Nature wrote a second label, They're her own words--at least suppose so-- And boldly pin it on Pomposo.
LABEL SECOND.
When I composed the fustian brain Of this redoubted Captain Vain. I had at hand but few ingredients, And so was forced to use expedients. I put therein some small discerning, A grain of sense, a grain of learning; And when I saw the void behind, I filled it up with--froth and wind!
* * * * *
TO JULIA
ON HER BIRTHDAY.
When Time was entwining the garland of years, Which to crown my beloved was given, Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears, Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven.
And long may this garland be sweet to the eye, May its verdure forever be new; Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh, And Sympathy nurse it with dew.
A REFLECTION AT SEA.
See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile, Yon little billow heaves its breast, And foams and sparkles for awhile,-- Then murmuring subsides to rest.
Thus man, the sport of bliss and care, Rises on time's eventful sea: And, having swelled a moment there, Thus melts into eternity!
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 thy 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.
THE SHIELD.
Say, did you not hear a voice of death! And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath, And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?
Was it the wailing bird of the gloom, That shrieks on the house of woe all night? Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb, To howl and to feed till the glance of light?
'Twas _not_ the death-bird's cry from the wood, Nor shivering fiend that hung on the blast; 'Twas the shade of Helderic--man of blood-- It screams for the guilt of days that are past.
See, how the red, red lightning strays, And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath! Now on the leafless yew it plays, Where hangs the shield of this son of death.
That shield is blushing with murderous stains; Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray; It is blown by storms and washed by rains, But neither can take the blood away!
Oft by that yew, on the blasted field, Demons dance to the red moon's light; While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield Sings to the raving spirit of night!
TO JULIA WEEPING.
Oh! if your tears are given to care, If real woe disturbs your peace, Come to my bosom, weeping fair! And I will bid your weeping cease.
But if with Fancy's visioned fears, With dreams of woe your bosom thrill; You look so lovely in your tears, That I must bid you drop them still.
DREAMS.
TO ... ....
In slumber, I prithee how is it That souls are oft taking the air, And paying each other a visit, While bodies are heaven knows where?
Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it, Your soul took a fancy to roam, For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet, Come ask, whether _mine_ was at home.
And mine let her in with delight, And they talked and they laughed the time through; For, when souls come together at night, There is no saying what they mayn't do!
And _your_ little Soul, heaven bless her! Had much to complain and to say, Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her By keeping her prisoned all day.
"If I happen," said she, "but to steal "For a peep now and then to her eye, "Or, to quiet the fever I feel, "Just venture abroad on a sigh;
"In an instant she frightens me in "With some phantom of prudence or terror, "For fear I should stray into sin, "Or, what is still worse, into error!
"So, instead of displaying my graces, "By daylight, in language and mien, "I am shut up in corners and places, "Where truly I blush to be seen!"
Upon hearing this piteous confession, _My_ Soul, looking tenderly at her, Declared, as for grace and discretion, He did not know much of the matter;
"But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit!" he said, "Be at home, after midnight, and then "I will come when your lady's in bed, "And we'll talk o'er the subject again."
So she whispered a word in his ear, I suppose to her door to direct him, And, just after midnight, my dear, Your polite little Soul may expect him.
TO ROSA.
WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.
The wisest soul, by anguish torn, Will soon unlearn the lore it knew; And when the shrining casket's worn, The gem within will tarnish too.
But love's an essence of the soul, Which sinks hot with this chain of clay; Which throbs beyond the chill control Of withering pain or pale decay.
And surely, when the touch of Death Dissolves the spirit's earthly ties, Love still attends the immortal breath, And makes it purer for the skies!
Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere, My soul shall leave this orb of men, That love which formed its treasure here, Shall be its _best_ of treasures then!
And as, in fabled dreams of old, Some air-born genius, child of time, Presided o'er each star that rolled, And tracked it through its path sublime;
So thou, fair planet, not unled, Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray; Thy lover's shade, to thee still wed, Shall linger round thy earthly way.
Let other spirits range the sky, And play around each starry gem; I'll bask beneath that lucid eye, Nor envy worlds of suns to them.
And when that heart shall cease to beat, And when that breath at length is free, Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet, And mingle to eternity!
SONG.
The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove, Is fair--but oh, how fair, If Pity's hand had stolen from Love One leaf, to mingle there!
If every rose with gold were tied, Did gems for dewdrops fall, One faded leaf where Love had sighed Were sweetly worth them all.
The wreath you wove,--the wreath you wove Our emblem well may be; Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Love Must keep its tears for me.
THE SALE OF LOVES.
I dreamt that, in the Paphian groves, My nets by moonlight laying, I caught a flight of wanton Loves, Among the rose-beds playing. Some just had left their silvery shell, While some were full in feather; So pretty a lot of Loves to sell, Were never yet strung together. Come buy my Loves, Come buy my Loves, Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!-- They're new and bright, The cost is light, For the coin of this isle is kisses.
First Cloris came, with looks sedate. The coin on her lips was ready; "I buy," quoth she, "my Love by weight, "Full grown, if you please, and steady." "Let mine be light," said Fanny, "pray-- "Such lasting toys undo one; "A light little Love that will last to-day,-- "To-morrow I'll sport a new one." Come buy my Loves, Come buy my Loves, Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!-- There's some will keep, Some light and cheap At from ten to twenty kisses.
The learned Prue took a pert young thing, To divert her virgin Muse with, And pluck sometimes a quill from his wing. To indite her billet-doux with, Poor Cloe would give for a well-fledged pair Her only eye, if you'd ask it; And Tabitha begged, old toothless fair. For the youngest Love in the basket. Come buy my Loves, etc.
But _one_ was left, when Susan came, One worth them all together; At sight of her dear looks of shame, He smiled and pruned his feather. She wished the boy--'twas more than whim-- Her looks, her sighs betrayed it; But kisses were not enough for him, I asked a heart and she paid it! Good-by, my Loves, Good-by, my Loves, 'Twould make you smile to've seen us First, trade for this Sweet child of bliss, And then nurse the boy between us.
TO .... ....
The world has just begun to steal Each hope that led me lightly on; I felt not, as I used to feel, And life grew dark and love was gone.
No eye to mingle sorrow's tear, No lip to mingle pleasure's breath, No circling arms to draw me near-- 'Twas gloomy, and I wished for death.
But when I saw that gentle eye, Oh! something seemed to tell me then, That I was yet too young to die, And hope and bliss might bloom again.
With every gentle smile that crost Your kindling cheek, you lighted home Some feeling which my heart had lost And peace which far had learned to roam.
'Twas then indeed so sweet to live, Hope looked so new and Love so kind. That, though I mourn, I yet forgive The ruin they have left behind.
I could have loved you--oh, so well!-- The dream, that wishing boyhood knows, Is but a bright, beguiling spell, That only lives while passion glows.
But, when this early flush declines, When the heart's sunny morning fleets, You know not then how close it twines Round the first kindred soul it meets.
Yes, yes, I could have loved, as one Who, while his youth's enchantments fall, Finds something dear to rest upon, Which pays him for the loss of all.
TO .... ....
Never mind how the pedagogue proses, You want not antiquity's stamp; A lip, that such fragrance discloses, Oh! never should smell of the lamp.
Old Cloe, whose withering kiss Hath long set the Loves at defiance, Now, done with the science of bliss, May take to the blisses of science.
But for _you_ to be buried in books-- Ah, Fanny, they're pitiful sages, Who could not in _one_ of your looks Read more than in millions of pages.
Astronomy finds in those eyes Better light than she studies above; And Music would borrow your sighs As the melody fittest for Love.
Your Arithmetic only can trip If to count your own charms you endeavor; And Eloquence glows on your lip When you swear that you'll love me for ever.
Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance Of arts is assembled in you;-- A course of more exquisite science Man never need wish to pursue.
And, oh!--if a Fellow like me May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts!
ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,
Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs, Then will I weep, in anguish weep, Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.
But if thy sainted soul can feel, And mingles in our misery; Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal-- Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.
The beam of morn was on the stream, But sullen clouds the day deform; Like thee was that young, orient beam, Like death, alas, that sullen storm!
Thou wert not formed for living here, So linked thy soul was with the sky; Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear, We thought thou wert not formed to die.
INCONSTANCY.
And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, When surely there's nothing in nature more common? She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me-- And could I expect any more from a woman?
Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure; And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, When he held that you were but materials of pleasure, And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.
By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it, He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid; But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute-- If he live but a _day_, he'll be surely betrayed.
THE NATAL GENIUS.
A DREAM
TO .... ....
THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDAY.
In witching slumbers of the night, I dreamt I was the airy sprite That on thy natal moment smiled; And thought I wafted on my wing Those flowers which in Elysium spring, To crown my lovely mortal child.
With olive-branch I bound thy head, Heart's ease along thy path I shed, Which was to bloom through all thy years; Nor yet did I forget to bind Love's roses, with his myrtle twined, And dewed by sympathetic tears.
Such was the wild but precious boon Which Fancy, at her magic noon, Bade me to Nona's image pay; And were it thus my fate to be Thy little guardian deity, How blest around thy steps I'd play!
Thy life should glide in peace along, Calm as some lonely shepherd's song That's heard at distance in the grove; No cloud should ever dim thy sky, No thorns along thy pathway lie, But all be beauty, peace and love.
Indulgent Time should never bring To thee one blight upon his wing, So gently o'er thy brow he'd fly; And death itself should but be felt Like that of daybeams, when they melt, Bright to the last, in evening's sky!
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA,
ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER.
Though sorrow long has worn my heart; Though every day I've, counted o'er Hath brought a new and, quickening smart To wounds that rankled fresh before;
Though in my earliest life bereft Of tender links by nature tied; Though hope deceived, and pleasure left; Though friends betrayed and foes belied;
I still had hopes--for hope will stay After the sunset of delight; So like the star which ushers day, We scarce can think it heralds night!--
I hoped that, after all its strife, My weary heart at length should rest. And, feinting from the waves of life, Find harbor in a brother's breast.
That brother's breast was warm with truth, Was bright with honor's purest ray; He was the dearest, gentlest youth-- Ah, why then was he torn away?
He should have stayed, have lingered here To soothe his Julia's every woe; He should have chased each bitter tear, And not have caused those tears to flow.
We saw within his soul expand The fruits of genius, nurst by taste; While Science, with a fostering hand, Upon his brow her chaplet placed.
We saw, by bright degrees, his mind Grow rich in all that makes men dear; Enlightened, social, and refined, In friendship firm, in love sincere.
Such was the youth we loved so well, And such the hopes that fate denied;-- We loved, but ah! could scarcely tell How deep, how dearly, till he died!
Close as the fondest links could strain, Twined with my very heart he grew; And by that fate which breaks the chain, The heart is almost broken too.
TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS......,
IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE
IMPROMPTU.
--_Ego Pars_--VIRG.
In wedlock a species of lottery lies, Where in blanks and in prizes we deal; But how comes it that you, such a capital prize, Should so long have remained in the wheel?
If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree, To me such a ticket should roll, A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me; For what could _I_ do with the whole?
A DREAM.
I thought this heart enkindled lay On Cupid's burning shrine: I thought he stole thy heart away, And placed it near to mine.
I saw thy heart begin to melt, Like ice before the sun; Till both a glow congenial felt, And mingled into one!
TO .......
With all my soul, then, let us part, Since both are anxious to be free; And I will sand you home your heart, If you will send mine back to me.
We've had some happy hours together, But joy must often change its wing; And spring would be but gloomy weather, If we had nothing else but spring.
'Tis not that I expect to find A more devoted, fond and true one, With rosier cheek or sweeter mind-- Enough for me that she's a new one.
Thus let us leave the bower of love, Where we have loitered long in bliss; And you may down _that_ pathway rove, While I shall take my way through _this_.
ANACREONTIC.
"She never looked so kind before-- "Yet why the wanton's smile recall? "I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er, "'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!"
Thus I said and, sighing drained The cup which she so late had tasted; Upon whose rim still fresh remained The breath, so oft in falsehood wasted.
I took the harp and would have sung As if 'twere not of her I sang; But still the notes on Lamia hung-- On whom but Lamia _could_ they hang?
Those eyes of hers, that floating shine, Like diamonds in some eastern river; That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine, A world for every kiss I'd give her.
That frame so delicate, yet warmed With flushes of love's genial hue; A mould transparent, as if formed To let the spirit's light shine through.
Of these I sung, and notes and words Were sweet, as if the very air From Lamia's lip hung o'er the chords, And Lamia's voice still warbled there!
But when, alas, I turned the theme, And when of vows and oaths I spoke, Of truth and hope's seducing dream-- The chord beneath my finger broke.
False harp! false woman! such, oh, such Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing; Any hand, whate'er its touch, Can set their chords or pulses thrilling.
And when that thrill is most awake, And when you think Heaven's joys await you, The nymph will change, the chord will break-- Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!
TO JULIA.
I saw the peasant's hand unkind From yonder oak the ivy sever; They seemed in very being twined; Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!
Not so the widowed ivy shines: Torn from its dear and only stay, In drooping widowhood it pines, And scatters all its bloom away.
Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine, Till Fate disturbed their tender ties: Thus gay indifference blooms in thine, While mine, deserted, droops and dies!
HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI,
AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER.
Oh, lost, forever lost--no more Shall Vesper light our dewy way Along the rocks of Crissa's shore, To hymn the fading fires of day; No more to Tempe's distant vale In holy musings shall we roam, Through summer's glow and winter's gale, To bear the mystic chaplets home.[1]
'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal, By nature warmed and led by thee, In every breeze was taught to feel The breathings of a Deity. Guide of my heart! still hovering round. Thy looks, thy words are still my own-- I see thee raising from the ground Some laurel, by the winds o'er thrown. And hear thee say, "This humble bough Was planted for a doom divine; And, though it droop in languor now, Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine!" "Thus, in the vale of earthly sense, "Though sunk awhile the spirit lies, "A viewless hand shall cull it thence "To bloom immortal in the skies!"
All that the young should feel and know By thee was taught so sweetly well, Thy words fell soft as vernal snow, And all was brightness where they fell! Fond soother of my infant tear, Fond sharer of my infant joy, Is not thy shade still lingering here? Am I not still thy soul's employ? Oh yes--and, as in former days, When, meeting on the sacred mount, Our nymphs awaked their choral lays, And danced around Cassotis' fount; As then, 'twas all thy wish and care, That mine should be the simplest mien, My lyre and voice the sweetest there, My foot the lightest o'er the green: So still, each look and step to mould, Thy guardian care is round me spread, Arranging every snowy fold And guiding every mazy tread. And, when I lead the hymning choir, Thy spirit still, unseen and free, Hovers between my lip and lyre, And weds them into harmony. Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave Shall never drop its silvery tear Upon so pure, so blest a grave, To memory so entirely dear!
[1] The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias; that this valley supplied the branches, 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 player on the flute."
SYMPATHY.
TO JULIA.
--_sine me sit nulla Venus_. SULPICIA.
Our hearts, my love, were formed to be The genuine twins of Sympathy, They live with one sensation; In joy or grief, but most in love, Like chords in unison they move, And thrill with like vibration.
How oft I've beard thee fondly say, Thy vital pulse shall cease to play When mine no more is moving; Since, now, to feel a joy _alone_ Were worse to thee than feeling none, So twined are we in loving!
THE TEAR.
On beds of snow the moonbeam slept, And chilly was the midnight gloom, When by the damp grave Ellen wept-- Fond maid! it was her Lindor's tomb!
A warm tear gushed, the wintry air, Congealed it as it flowed away: All night it lay an ice-drop there, At morn it glittered in the ray.
An angel, wandering from her sphere, Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear And hung it on her diadem!
THE SNAKE.
My love and I, the other day, Within a myrtle arbor lay, When near us, from a rosy bed, A little Snake put forth its head.
"See," said the maid with thoughtful eyes-- "Yonder the fatal emblem lies! "Who could expect such hidden harm "Beneath the rose's smiling charm?"
Never did grave remark occur Less _à-propos_ than this from her.
I rose to kill the snake, but she, Half-smiling, prayed it might not be.
"No," said the maiden--and, alas, Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it-- "Long as the snake is in the grass, "One _may_, perhaps, have cause to dread it: "But, when its wicked eyes appear, "And when we know for what they wink so, "One must be _very_ simple, dear, "To let it wound one--don't you think so?"
TO ROSA.
Is the song of Rosa mute? Once such lays inspired her lute! Never doth a sweeter song Steal the breezy lyre along, When the wind, in odors dying, Woos it with enamor'd sighing.
Is my Rosa's lute unstrung? Once a tale of peace it sung To her lover's throbbing breast-- Then was he divinely blest! Ah! but Rosa loves no more, Therefore Rosa's song is o'er; And her lute neglected lies; And her boy forgotten sighs. Silent lute--forgotten lover-- Rosa's love and song are over!
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
_Sic juvat perire_.
When wearied wretches sink to sleep, How heavenly soft their slumbers lie! How sweet is death to those who weep, To those who weep and long to die!
Saw you the soft and grassy bed, Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast? 'Tis there I wish to lay my head, 'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.
Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,-- None but the dews at twilight given! Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,-- None but the whispering winds of heaven!
LOVE AND MARRIAGE.
_Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum_. SECUNDUS, eleg. vii.
Still the question I must parry, Still a wayward truant prove: Where I love, I must not marry; Where I marry, can not love.
Were she fairest of creation, With the least presuming mind; Learned without affectation; Not deceitful, yet refined;
Wise enough, but never rigid; Gay, but not too lightly free; Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid: Fond, yet satisfied with me:
Were she all this ten times over, All that heaven to earth allows. I should be too much her lover Ever to become her spouse.
Love will never bear enslaving; Summer garments suit him best; Bliss itself is not worth having, If we're by compulsion blest.
ANACREONTIC.
I filled to thee, to thee I drank, I nothing did but drink and fill; The bowl by turns was bright and blank, 'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.
At length I bade an artist paint Thy image in this ample cup, That I might see the dimpled saint, To whom I quaffed my nectar up.
Behold, how bright that purple lip Now blushes through the wave at me; Every roseate drop I sip Is just like kissing wine from thee.
And still I drink the more for this; For, ever when the draught I drain, Thy lip invites another kiss, And--in the nectar flows again.
So, here's to thee, my gentle dear, And may that eyelid never shine Beneath a darker, bitterer tear Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!
THE SURPRISE.
Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.-- "What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?" Because I _can not_ love thee _more_ --than _now_!
TO MISS .......
ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS NIGHTS.
I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies, And in thy breath his pinion dips, Who suns him in thy radiant eyes, And faints upon thy sighing lips:
I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep That used to shade thy looks of light; And why those eyes their vigil keep When other suns are sunk in night?
And I will say--her angel breast Has never throbbed with guilty sting; Her bosom is the sweetest nest Where Slumber could repose his wing!
And I will say--her cheeks that flush, Like vernal roses in the sun, Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush, Except for what her eyes have done!
Then tell me, why, thou child of air! Does slumber from her eyelids rove? What is her heart's impassioned care? Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis _love_.
THE WONDER.
Come, tell me where the maid is found. Whose heart can love without deceit, And I will range the world around, To sigh one moment at her feet.
Oh! tell me where's her sainted home, What air receives her blessed sigh, A pilgrimage of years I'll roam To catch one sparkle of her eye!
And if her cheek be smooth and bright, While truth within her bosom lies, I'll gaze upon her morn and night, Till my heart leave me through my eyes.
Show me on earth a thing so rare, I'll own all miracles are true; To make one maid sincere and fair, Oh, 'tis the utmost Heaven can do!
LYING.
_Che con le lor bugie pajon divini._ MAURO D'ARCANO.
I do confess, in many a sigh, My lips have breathed you many a lie; And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nay,--look not thus, with brow reproving; Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving. If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying's bright illusion, This world would be in strange confusion. If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy must leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes. Oh, no--believe me, lovely girl, When nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your amber locks to golden wire, Then, only then can Heaven decree, That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn, We've swearing kist, and kissing sworn. And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once I'll tell you truth, my dear. Whenever you may chance to meet Some loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures, And while he lies, his heart is yours: But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth.
ANACREONTIC.
Friend of my soul, this goblet sip, 'Twill chase that pensive tear; 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh! 'tis more sincere.
Like her delusive beam, 'Twill steal away thy mind: But, truer than love's dream, It leaves no sting behind.
Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade; These flowers were culled at noon;-- Like woman's love the rose will fade, But, ah! not half so soon. For though the flower's decayed, Its fragrance is not o'er; But once when love's betrayed, Its sweet life blooms no more.
THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS[1]
TO A LAMP WHICH HAD BEEN GIVEN HIM BY LAIS.
_Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna_. MARTIAL, _lib. xiv. epig. 89_.
"Oh! love the Lamp" (my Mistress said), "The faithful Lamp that, many a night, "Beside thy Lais' lonely bed? "Has kept its little watch of light.
"Full often has it seen her weep, "And fix her eye upon its flame. "Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep, "Repeating her beloved's name.
"Then love the Lamp--'twill often lead "Thy step through learning's sacred way; "And when those studious eyes shall read, "At midnight, by its lonely ray, "Of things sublime, of nature's birth, "Of all that's bright in heaven or earth, Oh, think that she, by whom 'twas given, "Adores thee more than earth or heaven!"
Yes--dearest Lamp, by every charm On which thy midnight beam has hung; The head reclined, the graceful arm Across the brow of ivory flung;
The heaving bosom, partly hid, The severed lips unconscious sighs, The fringe that from the half-shut lid Adown the cheek of roses lies;
By these, by all that bloom untold, And long as all shall charm my heart, I'll love my little Lamp of gold-- My Lamp and I shall never part.
And often, as she smiling said, In fancy's hour thy gentle rays Shall guide my visionary tread Through poesy's enchanting maze. Thy flame shall light the page refined, Where still we catch the Chian's breath, Where still the bard though cold in death, Has left his soul unquenched behind. Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine, Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades, To whom the nightly warbling Nine A wand of inspiration gave, Plucked from the greenest tree, that shades The crystal of Castalia's wave.
Then, turning to a purer lore, We'll cull the sage's deep-hid store, From Science steal her golden clue, And every mystic path pursue, Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes, Through labyrinths of wonder flies. 'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know How fleeting is this world below, Where all that meets the morning light, Is changed before the fall of night!
I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire, "Swift, swift the tide of being runs, "And Time, who bids thy flame expire, "Will also quench yon heaven of suns."
Oh, then if earth's united power Can never chain one feathery hour; If every print we leave to-day To-morrow's wave will sweep away; Who pauses to inquire of heaven Why were the fleeting treasures given, The sunny days, the shady nights, And all their brief but dear delights, Which heaven has made for man to use, And man should think it crime to lose? Who that has culled a fresh-blown rose Will ask it why it breathes and glows, Unmindful of the blushing ray, In which it shines its soul away; Unmindful of the scented sigh, With which it dies and loves to die.
Pleasure, thou only good on earth[2] One precious moment given to thee-- Oh! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth The sage's immortality.
Then far be all the wisdom hence, That would our joys one hour delay! Alas, the feast of soul and sense Love calls us to in youth's bright day, If not soon tasted, fleets away. Ne'er wert thou formed, my Lamp, to shed Thy splendor on a lifeless page;-- Whate'er my blushing Lais said Of thoughtful lore and studies sage, 'Twas mockery all--her glance of joy Told me thy dearest, best employ. And, soon, as night shall close the eye Of heaven's young wanderer in the west; When seers are gazing on the sky, To find their future orbs of rest; Then shall I take my trembling way, Unseen but to those worlds above, And, led by thy mysterious ray, Steal to the night-bower of my love.
[1] It does not appear to have been very difficult to become a philosopher amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with a considerable portion of confidence, and just wit enough to produce an occasional apophthegm, seem to have been all the qualifications necessary for the purpose.
[2] Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness, in which idea he differed from the Epicureans, who looked to a state of repose as the only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively agitations of pleasure, as a violent and ungraceful derangement of the senses.
TO MRS,---.
ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF VOITURE'S KISS.
_Mon ame sur mon lèvre étoit lors toute entière. Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre étoit; Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière, Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'a restoit_. VOITURE.
How heavenly was the poet's doom, To breathe his spirit through a kiss: And lose within so sweet a tomb The trembling messenger of bliss!
And, sure his soul returned to feel That it _again_ could ravished be; For in the kiss that thou didst steal, His life and soul have fled to thee.
RONDEAU.
"Good night! good night!"--And is it so? And must I from my Rosa go? Oh Rosa, say "Good night!" once more, And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er, Till the first glance of dawning light Shall find us saying, still, "Good night."
And still "Good night," my Rosa, say-- But whisper still, "A minute stay;" And I will stay, and every minute Shall have an age of transport in it; Till Time himself shall stay his flight, To listen to our sweet "Good night."
"Good night!" you'll murmur with a sigh, And tell me it is time to fly: And I will vow, will swear to go, While still that sweet voice murmurs "No!" Till slumber seal our weary sight-- And then, my love, my soul, "Good night!"
SONG.
Why does azure deck the sky? 'Tis to be like thy looks of blue. Why is red the rose's dye? Because it is thy blushes' hue. All that's fair, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!
Why is falling snow so white, But to be like thy bosom fair! Why are solar beams so bright? That they may seem thy golden hair! All that's bright, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!
Why are nature's beauties felt? Oh! 'tis thine in her we see! Why has music power to melt? Oh! because it speaks like thee. All that's sweet, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!
TO ROSA.
Like one who trusts to summer skies, And puts his little bark to sea, Is he who, lured by smiling eyes, Consigns his simple heart to thee.
For fickle is the summer wind, And sadly may the bark be tost; For thou art sure to change thy mind, And then the wretched heart is lost!
WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING.
TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES.
This tribute's from a wretched elf, Who hails thee, emblem of himself. The book of life, which I have traced, Has been, like thee, a motley waste Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, One folly bringing hundreds more. Some have indeed been writ so neat, In characters so fair, so sweet, That those who judge not too severely, Have said they loved such follies dearly! Yet still, O book! the allusion stands; For these were penned by _female_ hands: The rest--alas! I own the truth-- Have all been scribbled so uncouth That Prudence, with a withering look, Disdainful, flings away the book. Like thine, its pages here and there Have oft been stained with blots of care; And sometimes hours of peace, I own, Upon some fairer leaves have shone, White as the snowings of that heaven By which those hours of peace were given; But now no longer--such, oh, such The blast of Disappointment's touch!-- No longer now those hours appear; Each leaf is sullied by a tear: Blank, blank is every page with care, Not even a folly brightens there. Will they yet brighten?--never, never! Then _shut the book_, O God, for ever!
TO ROSA.
Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears At a meeting of rapture like this, When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years Have been paid by one moment of bliss?
Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight, Which dwells on her memory yet? Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night, From the warmth of the sun that has set?
Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile, That smile, which is loveliest then; And if such are the drops that delight can beguile, Thou shalt weep them again and again.
LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.
Light sounds the harp when the combat is over, When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom; When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. But, when the foe returns, Again the hero burns; High flames the sword in his hand once more: The clang of mingling arms Is then the sound that charms, And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;-- Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over-- When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom-- When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining, Lay lulled on the white arm of Beauty to rest, When round his rich armor the myrtle hung twining, And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest. But, when the battle came, The hero's eye breathed flame: Soon from his neck the white arm was flung; While, to his waking ear, No other sounds were dear But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung. But then came the light harp, when danger was ended, And Beauty once more lulled the War-God to rest; When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended, And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER.
Fill high the cup with liquid flame, And speak my Heliodora's name. Repeat its magic o'er and o'er, And let the sound my lips adore, Live in the breeze, till every tone, And word, and breath, speaks her alone.
Give me the wreath that withers there, It was but last delicious night, It circled her luxuriant hair, And caught her eyes' reflected light. Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow, 'Tis all of her that's left me now. And see--each rosebud drops a tear, To find the nymph no longer here-- No longer, where such heavenly charms As hers _should_ be--within these arms.
SONG.
Fly from the world, O Bessy! to me, Thou wilt never find any sincerer; I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee, I can never meet any that's dearer. Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh, That our loves will be censured by many; All, all have their follies, and who will deny That ours is the sweetest of any?
When your lip has met mine, in communion so sweet, Have we felt as if virtue forbid it?-- Have we felt as if heaven denied them to meet?-- No, rather 'twas heaven that did it. So innocent, love, is the joy we then sip, So little of wrong is there in it, That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip, And I'd kiss them away in a minute.
Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed, From a world which I know thou despisest; And slumber will hover as light o'er our bed! As e'er on the couch of the wisest. And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven, And thou, pretty innocent, fearest, I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of heaven, 'Tis only our lullaby, dearest.
And, oh! while, we lie on our deathbed, my love, Looking back on the scene of our errors, A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above, And Death be disarmed of his terrors, And each to the other embracing will say, "Farewell! let us hope we're forgiven." Thy last fading glance will illumine the way, And a kiss be our passport to heaven!
THE RESEMBLANCE.
_---- vo cercand' io, Donna quant' e possibile in altrui La desiata vostra forma vera_. PETRARC, _Sonett_. 14.
Yes, if 'twere any common love, That led my pliant heart astray, I grant, there's not a power above Could wipe the faithless crime away.
But 'twas my doom to err with one In every look so like to thee That, underneath yon blessed sun So fair there are but thou and she
Both born of beauty, at a birth, She held with thine a kindred sway, And wore the only shape on earth That could have lured my soul to stray.
Then blame me not, if false I be, 'Twas love that waked the fond excess; My heart had been more true to thee, Had mine eye prized thy beauty less.
FANNY, DEAREST.
Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn To tears when thou art nigh. But, between love, and wine, and sleep, So busy a life I live, That even the time it would take to weep Is more than my heart can give. Then bid me not to despair and pine, Fanny, dearest of all the dears! The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Reflected bright in this heart of mine, Fanny, dearest, thy image lies; But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine, If dimmed too often with sighs. They lose the half of beauty's light, Who view it through sorrow's tear; And 'tis but to see thee truly bright That I keep my eye-beam clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flow, Fanny, dearest--the hope is vain; If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, I shall never attempt it with rain.
THE RING.
TO .... ....
No--Lady! Lady! keep the ring: Oh! think, how many a future year, Of placid smile and downy wing, May sleep within its holy sphere.
Do not disturb their tranquil dream, Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed; Yet heaven will shed a soothing beam, To bless the bond itself hath formed.
But then, that eye, that burning eye,-- Oh! it doth ask, with witching power, If heaven can ever bless the tie Where love inwreaths no genial flower?
Away, away, bewildering look, Or all the boast of virtue's o'er; Go--hie thee to the sage's book, And learn from him to feel no more.
I cannot warn thee: every touch, That brings my pulses close to thine, Tells me I want thy aid as much-- Even more, alas, than thou dost mine.
Yet, stay,--one hope, one effort yet-- A moment turn those eyes a way, And let me, if I can, forget The light that leads my soul astray.
Thou sayest, that we were born to meet, That our hearts bear one common seal;-- Think, Lady, think, how man's deceit Can seem to sigh and feign to feel.
When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought, Like daybeams through the morning air, Hath gradual stole, and I have caught The feeling ere it kindled there;
The sympathy I then betrayed, Perhaps was but the child of art, The guile of one, who long hath played With all these wily nets of heart.
Oh! thine is not my earliest vow; Though few the years I yet have told, Canst thou believe I've lived till now, With loveless heart or senses cold?
No--other nymphs to joy and pain This wild and wandering heart hath moved; With some it sported, wild and vain, While some it dearly, truly, loved.
The cheek to thine I fondly lay, To theirs hath been as fondly laid; The words to thee I warmly say, To them have been as warmly said.
Then, scorn at once a worthless heart, Worthless alike, or fixt or free; Think of the pure, bright soul thou art, And--love not me, oh love not me.
Enough--now, turn thine eyes again; What, still that look and still that sigh! Dost thou not feel my counsel then? Oh! no, beloved,--nor do I.
TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL.
They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite, That you're not a true daughter of ether and light, Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms; That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your eye As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky. But I _will_ not believe them--no, Science, to you I have long bid a last and a careless adieu: Still flying from Nature to study her laws, And dulling delight by exploring its cause, You forget how superior, for mortals below, Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know. Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete, Would ask _how_ we feel it, or _why_ it is sweet; How rays are confused, or how particles fly Through the medium refined of a glance or a sigh; Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it, Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it?
As for you, my sweet-voiced and invisible love, You must surely be one of those spirits, that rove By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines, When the star of the west on his solitude shines, And the magical fingers of fancy have hung Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue. Oh! hint to him then, 'tis retirement alone Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone; Like you, with a veil of seclusion between, His song to the world let him utter unseen, And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres, Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears.
Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love, In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove, To have you thus ever invisibly nigh, Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh! Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care, I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air, And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew, To steal in the pauses one whisper from you. Then, come and be near me, for ever be mine, We shall hold in the air a communion divine, As sweet as, of old, was imagined to dwell In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell. And oft, at those lingering moments of night, When the heart's busy thoughts have put slumber to flight, You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love, Such as angel to angel might whisper above. Sweet spirit!--and then, could you borrow the tone Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known, The voice of the one upon earth, who has twined With her being for ever my heart and my mind, Though lonely and far from the light of her smile, An exile, and weary and hopeless the while, Could you shed for a moment her voice on my ear. I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near; That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak, And kisses my eyelid and breathes on my cheek, And tells me the night shall go rapidly by, For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh.
Fair spirit! if such be your magical power, It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour; And, let fortune's realities frown as they will, Hope, fancy, and Cara may smile for me still.
THE RING[1]
A TALE
_Annulus ille viri._ OVID. _"Amor." lib. ii. eleg. 15_.
The happy day at length arrived When Rupert was to wed The fairest maid in Saxony, And take her to his bed.
As soon as morn was in the sky, The feast and sports began; The men admired the happy maid, The maids the happy man.
In many a sweet device of mirth The day was past along; And some the featly dance amused, And some the dulcet song.
The younger maids with Isabel Disported through the bowers, And decked her robe, and crowned her head With motley bridal flowers.
The matrons all in rich attire, Within the castle walls, Sat listening to the choral strains That echoed, through the halls.
Young Rupert and his friends repaired Unto a spacious court, To strike the bounding tennis-ball In feat and manly sport.
The bridegroom on his finger wore The wedding-ring so bright, Which was to grace the lily hand Of Isabel that night.
And fearing he might break the gem, Or lose it in the play, Hie looked around the court, to see Where he the ring might lay.
Now, in the court a statue stood, Which there full long had been; It might a Heathen goddess be, Or else, a Heathen queen.
Upon its marble finger then He tried the ring to fit; And, thinking it was safest there, Thereon he fastened it.
And now the tennis sports went on, Till they were wearied all, And messengers announced to them Their dinner in the hall,
Young Rupert for his wedding-ring Unto the statue went; But, oh, how shocked was he to find The marble finger bent!
The hand was closed upon the ring With firm and mighty clasp; In vain he tried and tried and tried, He could not loose the grasp!
Then sore surprised was Rupert's mind-- As well his mind might be; "I'll come," quoth he, "at night again, "When none are here to see."
He went unto the feast, and much He thought upon his ring; And marvelled sorely what could mean So very strange a thing!
The feast was o'er, and to the court He hied without delay, Resolved to break the marble hand And force the ring away.
But, mark a stranger wonder still-- The ring was there no more And yet the marble hand ungrasped, And open as before!
He searched the base, and all the court, But nothing could he find; Then to the castle hied he back With sore bewildered mind.
Within he found them all in mirth, The night in dancing flew: The youth another ring procured, And none the adventure knew.
And now the priest has joined their hands, The hours of love advance: Rupert almost forgets to think Upon the morn's mischance.
Within the bed fair Isabel In blushing sweetness lay, Like flowers, half-opened by the dawn, And waiting for the day.
And Rupert, by her lovely side, In youthful beauty glows, Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast His beams upon a rose.
And here my song would leave them both, Nor let the rest be told, If 'twere not for the horrid tale It yet has to unfold.
Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him A death cold carcass found; He saw it not, but thought he felt Its arms embrace him round.
He started up, and then returned, But found the phantom still; In vain he shrunk, it clipt him round, With damp and deadly chill!
And when he bent, the earthy lips A kiss of horror gave; 'Twas like the smell from charnel vaults, Or from the mouldering grave!
Ill-fated Rupert!--wild and loud Then cried he to his wife, "Oh! save me from this horrid fiend, "My Isabel! my life!"
But Isabel had nothing seen, She looked around in vain; And much she mourned the mad conceit That racked her Rupert's brain.
At length from this invisible These words to Rupert came: (Oh God! while he did hear the words What terrors shook his frame!)
"Husband, husband, I've the ring "Thou gavest to-day to me; "And thou'rt to me for ever wed, "As I am wed to thee!"
And all the night the demon lay Cold-chilling by his side, And strained him with such deadly grasp, He thought he should have died.
But when the dawn of day was near, The horrid phantom fled, And left the affrighted youth to weep By Isabel in bed.
And all that day a gloomy cloud Was seen on Rupert's brows; Fair Isabel was likewise sad, But strove to cheer her spouse.
And, as the day advanced, he thought Of coming night with fear: Alas, that he should dread to view The bed that should be dear!
At length the second night arrived, Again their couch they prest; Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er, And looked for love and rest.
But oh! when midnight came, again The fiend was at his side, And, as it strained him in its grasp, With howl exulting cried:--
"Husband, husband, I've the ring, "The ring thou gavest to me; "And thou'rt to me for ever wed, "As I am wed to thee!",
In agony of wild despair, He started from the bed; And thus to his bewildered wife The trembling Rupert said;
"Oh Isabel! dost thou not see "A shape of horrors here, "That strains me to its deadly kiss, "And keeps me from my dear?"
"No, no, my love! my Rupert, I "No shape of horrors see; "And much I mourn the fantasy "That keeps my dear from me."
This night, just like the night before, In terrors past away. Nor did the demon vanish thence Before the dawn of day.
Said Rupert then, "My Isabel, "Dear partner of my woe. "To Father Austin's holy cave "This instant will I go."
Now Austin was a reverend man, Who acted wonders maint-- Whom all the country round believed A devil or a saint!
To Father Austin's holy cave Then Rupert straightway went; And told him all, and asked him how These horrors to prevent.
The father heard the youth, and then Retired awhile to pray: And, having prayed for half an hour Thus to the youth did say:
"There is a place where four roads meet, "Which I will tell to thee; "Be there this eve, at fall of night, "And list what thou shalt see.
"Thou'lt see a group of figures pass "In strange disordered crowd, "Travelling by torchlight through the roads, "With noises strange and loud.
"And one that's high above the rest, "Terrific towering o'er, "Will make thee know him at a glance, "So I need say no more.
"To him from me these tablets give, "They'll quick be understood; "Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight, "I've scrawled them with my blood!"
The night-fall came, and Rupert all In pale amazement went To where the cross-roads met, as he Was by the Father sent.
And lo! a group of figures came In strange disordered crowd. Travelling by torchlight through the roads, With noises strange and loud.
And, as the gloomy train advanced, Rupert beheld from far A female form of wanton mien High seated on a car.
And Rupert, as he gazed upon The loosely-vested dame, Thought of the marble statue's look, For hers was just the same.
Behind her walked a hideous form, With eyeballs flashing death; Whene'er he breathed, a sulphured smoke Came burning in his breath.
He seemed the first of all the crowd, Terrific towering o'er; "Yes, yes," said Rupert, "this is he, "And I need ask no more."
Then slow he went, and to this fiend The tablets trembling gave, Who looked and read them with a yell That would disturb the grave.
And when he saw the blood-scrawled name, His eyes with fury shine; "I thought," cries he, "his time was out, "But he must soon be mine!"
Then darting at the youth a look Which rent his soul with fear, He went unto the female fiend, And whispered in her ear.
The female fiend no sooner heard Than, with reluctant look, The very ring that Rupert lost, She from her finger took.
And, giving it unto the youth, With eyes that breathed of hell, She said, in that tremendous voice, Which he remembered well:
"In Austin's name take back the ring, "The ring thou gavest to me; "And thou'rt to me no longer wed, "Nor longer I to thee."
He took the ring, the rabble past. He home returned again; His wife was then the happiest fair, The happiest he of men.
[1] I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions of frightening the nursery by this story; I rather hope--though the manner of it leads me to doubt--that his design was to ridicule that distempered taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the _"speciosa miracula"_ of true poetic imagination.
TO .... ....
ON SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE.
Put off the vestal Veil, nor, oh! Let weeping angels View it; Your cheeks belie its virgin snow. And blush repenting through it.
Put off the fatal zone you wear; The shining pearls around it Are tears, that fell from Virtue there, The hour when Love unbound it.
WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK.
Here is one leaf reserved for me, From all thy sweet memorials free; And here my simple song might tell The feelings thou must guess so well. But could I thus, within thy mind, One little vacant corner find, Where no impression yet is seen, Where no memorial yet hath been, Oh! it should be my sweetest care To _write my name_ for ever _there_!
TO MRS. BL----.
WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.
They say that Love had once a book (The urchin likes to copy you), Where, all who came, the pencil took, And wrote, like us, a line or two.
'Twas Innocence, the maid divine, Who kept this volume bright and fair. And saw that no unhallowed line Or thought profane should enter there;
And daily did the pages fill With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turned was still More bright than that she turned before.
Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft, How light the magic pencil ran! Till Fear would come, alas, as oft, And trembling close what Hope began.
A tear or two had dropt from Grief, And Jealousy would, now and then, Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf, Which Love had still to smooth again.
But, ah! there came a blooming boy, Who often turned the pages o'er, And wrote therein such words of joy, That all who read them sighed for more.
And Pleasure was this spirit's name, And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, Would tremble for her spotless book.
For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore, With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright; And much she feared lest, mantling o'er, Some drops should on the pages light.
And so it chanced, one luckless night, The urchin let that goblet fall O'er the fair book, so pure, so white, And sullied lines and marge and all!
In vain now, touched with shame, he tried To wash those fatal stains away; Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide, The leaves grew darker everyday.
And Fancy's sketches lost their hue, And Hope's sweet lines were all effaced, And Love himself now scarcely knew What Love himself so lately traced.
At length the urchin Pleasure fled, (For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, Reluctant flung the book away.
The index now alone remains. Of all the pages spoiled by Pleasure, And though it bears some earthly stains, Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure.
And oft, they say, she scans it o'er, And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages now no more, And thinks of lines that long have faded.
I know not if this tale be true, But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you, Since Love and you are near related.
TO CARA,
AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.
Concealed within the shady wood A mother left her sleeping child, And flew, to cull her rustic food, The fruitage of the forest wild.
But storms upon her pathway rise, The mother roams, astray and weeping; Far from the weak appealing cries Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.
She hopes, she fears; a light is seen, And gentler blows the night wind's breath; Yet no--'tis gone--the storms are keen, The infant may be chilled to death!
Perhaps, even now, in darkness shrouded, His little eyes lie cold and still;-- And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded, Life and love may light them still.
Thus, Cara, at our last farewell, When, fearful even thy hand to touch, I mutely asked those eyes to tell If parting pained thee half so much:
I thought,--and, oh! forgive the thought, For none was e'er by love inspired Whom fancy had not also taught To hope the bliss his soul desired.
Yes, I _did_ think, in Cara's mind, Though yet to that sweet mind unknown, I left one infant wish behind, One feeling, which I called my own.
Oh blest! though but in fancy blest, How did I ask of Pity's care, To shield and strengthen, in thy breast, The nursling I had cradled there.
And, many an hour, beguiled by pleasure, And many an hour of sorrow numbering, I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure, I left within thy bosom slumbering.
Perhaps, indifference has not chilled it, Haply, it yet a throb may give-- Yet, no--perhaps, a doubt has killed it; Say, dearest--_does_ the feeling live?
TO CARA,
ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DAY.
When midnight came to close the year, We sighed to think it thus should take The hours it gave us--hours as dear As sympathy and love could make Their blessed moments,--every sun Saw us, my love, more closely one.
But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh Which came a new year's light to shed, That smile we caught from eye to eye Told us, those moments were not fled: Oh, no,--we felt, some future sun Should see us still more closely one.
Thus may we ever, side by side, From happy years to happier glide; And still thus may the passing sigh We give to hours, that vanish o'er us, Be followed by the smiling eye, That Hope shall shed on scenes before us!
TO ......., 1801.
To be the theme of every hour The heart devotes to Fancy's power, When her prompt magic fills the mind With friends and joys we've left behind, And joys return and friends are near, And all are welcomed with a tear:-- In the mind's purest seat to dwell, To be remembered oft and well By one whose heart, though vain and wild, By passion led, by youth beguiled, Can proudly still aspire to be All that may yet win smiles from thee:-- If thus to live in every part Of a lone, weary wanderer's heart; If thus to be its sole employ Can give thee one faint gleam of joy, Believe it. Mary,--oh! believe A tongue that never can deceive, Though, erring, it too oft betray Even more than Love should dare to say,-- In Pleasure's dream or Sorrow's hour, In crowded hall or lonely bower, The business of my life shall be, For ever to remember thee. And though that heart be dead to mine, Since Love is life and wakes not thine, I'll take thy image, as the form Of one whom Love had failed to warm, Which, though it yield no answering thrill, Is not less dear, is worshipt still-- I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray, The bright, cold burden of my way. To keep this semblance fresh in bloom, My heart shall be its lasting tomb, And Memory, with embalming care, Shall keep it fresh and fadeless there.
THE GENIUS OF HARMONY.
AN IRREGULAR ODE.
_Ad harmoniam canere mundum_. CICERO _"de Nat. Deor." lib. iii_.
There lies a shell beneath the waves, In many a hollow winding wreathed, Such as of old Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed; This magic shell, From the white bosom of a syren fell, As once she wandered by the tide that laves Sicilia's sands of gold. It bears Upon its shining side the mystic notes Of those entrancing airs,[1] The genii of the deep were wont to swell, When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled! Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats; And, if the power Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,
Go, bring the bright shell to my bower, And I will fold thee in such downy dreams As lap the Spirit of the Seventh Sphere, When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear![2] And thou shalt own, That, through the circle of creation's zone, Where matter slumbers or where spirit beams; From the pellucid tides,[3] that whirl The planets through their maze of song, To the small rill, that weeps along Murmuring o'er beds of pearl; From the rich sigh Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,[4] To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields On Afric's burning fields;[5] Thou'lt wondering own this universe divine Is mine! That I respire in all and all in me, One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony.
Welcome, welcome, mystic shell! Many a star has ceased to burn,[6] Many a tear has Saturn's urn O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, Since thy aerial spell Hath in the waters slept. Now blest I'll fly With the bright treasure to my choral sky, Where she, who waked its early swell, The Syren of the heavenly choir. Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre; Or guides around the burning pole The winged chariot of some blissful soul: While thou-- Oh son of earth, what dreams shall rise for thee! Beneath Hispania's sun, Thou'll see a streamlet run, Which I've imbued with breathing melody;[7] And there, when night-winds down the current die, Thou'lt hear how like a harp its waters sigh: A liquid chord is every wave that flows, An airy plectrum every breeze that blows.
There, by that wondrous stream, Go, lay thy languid brow, And I will send thee such a godlike dream, As never blest the slumbers even of him,[8] Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre, Sate on the chill Pangaean mount,[9] And, looking to the orient dim, Watched the first flowing of that sacred fount, From which his soul had drunk its fire. Oh think what visions, in that lonely hour, Stole o'er his musing breast; What pious ecstasy Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power, Whose seal upon this new-born world imprest The various forms of bright divinity! Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove, Mid the deep horror of that silent bower,[10] Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber? When, free From every earthly chain, From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain, His spirit flew through fields above, Drank at the source of nature's fontal number, And saw, in mystic choir, around him move The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy! Such dreams, so heavenly bright, I swear By the great diadem that twines my hair, And by the seven gems that sparkle there, Mingling their beams In a soft iris of harmonious light, Oh, mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams.
* * * * *
I found her not--the chamber seemed Like some divinely haunted place Where fairy forms had lately beamed, 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 veil, which, all the day, Had floated o'er her cheek of rose; I saw the couch, where late she lay In languor of divine repose; And I could trace the hallowed print Her limbs had left, as pure and warm, As if 'twere done in rapture's mint, And Love himself had stamped the form.
Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou? In pity fly not thus from me; Thou art my life, my essence now, And my soul dies of wanting thee.
[1] In the "Histoire Naturelle des Antilles," there is an account of some curious shells, found at Curaçoa, on the back of which were lines, filled with musical characters so distinct and perfect, that the writer assures us a very charming trio was sung from one of them. The author adds, a poet might imagine that these shells were used by the syrens at their concerts.
[2] According to Cicero, and his commentator, Macrobius, the lunar tone is the gravest and faintest on the planetary heptachord.
[3] Leucippus, the atomist, imagined a kind of vortices in the heavens, which he borrowed from Anaxagoras, and possibly suggested to Descartes.
[4] Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures that the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, who, in representing the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the air.
[5] In the account of Africa which D'Ablancourt has translated, there is mention of a tree in that country, whose branches, when shaken by the hand produce very sweet sounds.
[6] Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of those fixed stars, which we are taught to consider as suns, attended each by its system. Descartes thought that our earth might formerly have been a sun, which became obscured by a thick incrustation over its surface. This probably suggested the idea of a central fire.
[7] This musical river is mentioned in the romance of Achilles Tatius.
[8] Orpheus.
[9] Eratosthenes, in mentioning the extreme veneration of Orpheus for Apollo, says that he was accustomed to go to the Pangaean mountain at daybreak, and there wait the rising of the sun, that he might be the first to hail its beams.
[10] Alluding to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras devoted the greater part of his days and nights to meditation and the mysteries of his philosophy.
TO MRS. HENRY TIGHE,
ON READING HER "PSYCHE."
Tell me the witching tale again, For never has my heart or ear Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain, So pure to feel, so sweet to hear.
Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame, When the high heaven itself was thine; When piety confest the flame, And even thy errors were divine;
Did ever Muse's hand, so fair, A glory round thy temple spread? Did ever lip's ambrosial air Such fragrance o'er thy altars shed?
One maid there was, who round her lyre The mystic myrtle wildly wreathed;-- But all _her_ sighs were sighs of fire, The myrtle withered as she breathed.
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 safest lies, concealed in night, The night where heaven has bid him lie; Oh! shed not there unhallowed light, Or, Psyche knows, the boy will fly.
Sweet Psyche, many a charmed hour, Through many a wild and magic waste, To the fair fount and blissful bower Have I, in dreams, thy light foot traced!
Where'er thy joys are numbered now, Beneath whatever shades of rest, The Genius of the starry brow Hath bound thee to thy Cupid's breast;
Whether above the horizon dim, Along whose verge our spirits stray,-- Half sunk beneath the shadowy rim, Half brightened by the upper ray,[1]--
Thou dwellest in a world, all light, Or, lingering here, doth love to be, To other souls, the guardian bright That Love was, through this gloom, to thee;
Still be the song to Psyche dear, The song, whose gentle voice was given To be, on earth, to mortal ear, An echo of her own, in heaven.
[1] By this image the Platonists expressed the middle state of the soul between sensible and intellectual existence.
FROM THE HIGH PRIEST OF APOLLO TO A VIRGIN OF DELPHI.[1]
_Cum digno digna_..... SULPICIA.
"Who is the maid, with golden hair, "With eye of fire, and foot of air, "Whose harp around my altar swells, "The sweetest of a thousand shells?" 'Twas thus the deity, who treads The arch of heaven, and proudly sheds Day from his eyelids--thus he spoke, As through my cell his glories broke.
Aphelia is the Delphic fair[2] With eyes of fire and golden hair, Aphelia's are the airy feet. And hers the harp divinely sweet; For foot so light has never trod The laurelled caverns of the god. Nor harp so soft hath ever given A sigh to earth or hymn to heaven.
"Then tell the virgin to unfold, "In looser pomp, her locks of gold, "And bid those eyes more fondly shine "To welcome down a Spouse Divine; "Since He, who lights the path of years-- "Even from the fount of morning's tears "To where his setting splendors burn "Upon the western sea-maid's urn-- "Doth not, in all his course, behold "Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold. "Tell her, he comes, in blissful pride, "His lip yet sparkling with the tide "That mantles in Olympian bowls,-- "The nectar of eternal souls! "For her, for her he quits the skies, "And to her kiss from nectar flies. "Oh, he would quit his star-throned height, "And leave the world to pine for light, "Might he but pass the hours of shade, "Beside his peerless Delphic maid, "She, more than earthly woman blest, "He, more than god on woman's breast!"
There is a cave beneath the steep,[3] Where living rills of crystal weep O'er herbage of the loveliest hue That ever spring begemmed with dew: There oft the greensward's glossy tint Is brightened by the recent print Of many a faun and naiad's feet,-- Scarce touching earth, their step so fleet,-- That there, by moonlight's ray, had trod, In light dance, o'er the verdant sod. "There, there," the god, impassioned, said, "Soon as the twilight tinge is fled, "And the dim orb of lunar souls "Along its shadowy pathway rolls-- "There shall we meet,--and not even He, "The God who reigns immortally, "Where Babel's turrets paint their pride "Upon the Euphrates' shining tide,[4]-- "Not even when to his midnight loves "In mystic majesty he moves, "Lighted by many an odorous fire, "And hymned by all Chaldaea's choir,-- "E'er yet, o'er mortal brow, let shine "Such effluence of Love Divine, "As shall to-night, blest maid, o'er thine."
Happy the maid, whom heaven allows To break for heaven her virgin vows! Happy the maid!--her robe of shame Is whitened by a heavenly flame, Whose glory, with a lingering trace, Shines through and deifies her race!
[1] This poem, as well as a few others in the following volume, formed part of a work which I had early projected, and even announced to the public, but which, luckily, perhaps, for myself, had been interrupted by my visit to America in the year 1803.
[2] In the 9th Pythic of Pindar, where Apollo, in the same manner, requires of Chiron some information respecting the fair Cyrene, the Centaur, in obeying, very gravely apologizes for telling the God what his omniscience must know so perfectly already.
[3] The Corycian Cave, which Pausanias mentions. The inhabitants of Parnassus held it sacred to the Corycian nymphs, who were children of the river Plistus.
[4] The temple of Jupiter Belus, at Babylon; in one of whose towers there was a large chapel set apart for these celestial assignations. "No man is allowed to sleep here," says Herodotus; "but the apartment is appropriated to a female, whom, if we believe the Chaldaean priests, the deity selects from the women of the country, as his favorite."
FRAGMENT.
Pity me, love! I'll pity thee, If thou indeed hast felt like me. All, all my bosom's peace is o'er! At night, which _was_ my hour of calm, When from the page of classic lore, From the pure fount of ancient lay My soul has drawn the placid balm, Which charmed its every grief away, Ah! there I find that balm no more. Those spells, which make us oft forget The fleeting troubles of the day, In deeper sorrows only whet The stings they cannot tear away. When to my pillow racked I fly, With weary sense and wakeful eye. While my brain maddens, where, oh, where Is that serene consoling prayer, Which once has harbingered my rest, When the still soothing voice of Heaven Hath seemed to whisper in my breast, "Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven!" No, though I still in semblance pray, My thoughts are wandering far away, And even the name of Deity Is murmured out in sighs for thee.
A NIGHT THOUGHT.
How oft a cloud, with envious veil, Obscures yon bashful light, Which seems so modestly to steal Along the waste of night!
'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs Obscure with malice keen Some timid heart, which only longs To live and die unseen.
THE KISS.
Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss, On which my soul's beloved swore That there should come a time of bliss, When she would mock my hopes no more. And fancy shall thy glow renew, In sighs at morn, and dreams at night, And none shall steal thy holy dew Till thou'rt absolved by rapture's rite. Sweet hours that are to make me blest, Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal, And let my love, my more than soul, Come blushing to this ardent breast. Then, while in every glance I drink The rich overflowing of her mind, Oh! let her all enamored sink In sweet abandonment resigned, Blushing for all our struggles past, And murmuring, "I am thine at last!"
SONG.
Think on that look whose melting ray For one sweet moment mixt with mine, And for that moment seemed to say, "I dare not, or I would be thine!"
Think on thy every smile and glance, On all thou hast to charm and move; And then forgive my bosom's trance, Nor tell me it is sin to love.
Oh, _not_ to love thee were the sin; For sure, if Fate's decrees be done, Thou, thou art destined still to win, As I am destined to be won!
THE CATALOGUE.
"Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist, One day she reclined on my breast; "Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list "Of the nymphs you have loved and carest."-- Oh Rosa! 'twas only my fancy that roved, My heart at the moment was free; But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved, And the number shall finish with thee.
My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild She taught me the way to be blest; She taught me to love her, I loved like a child, But Kitty could fancy the rest. This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore I have never forgot, I allow: I have had it _by rote_ very often before, But never _by heart_ until now.
Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame, But my head was so full of romance That I fancied her into some chivalry dame, And I was her knight of the lance. But Martha was not of this fanciful school, And she laughed at her poor little knight; While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a fool, And I'll swear _she_ was most in the right.
My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks, Again I was tempted to rove; But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books That she gave me more logic than love. So I left this young Sappho, and hastened to fly To those sweeter logicians in bliss, Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye, And convince us at once with a kiss.
Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me, But Susan was piously given; And the worst of it was, we could never agree On the road that was shortest to Heaven. "Oh, Susan!" I've said, in the moments of mirth, "What's devotion to thee or to me? "I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth, "And believe that that heaven's in _thee_!"
IMITATION OF CATULLUS.
TO HIMSELF.
_Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire_, etc.
Cease the sighing fool to play; Cease to trifle life away; Nor vainly think those joys thine own, Which all, alas, have falsely flown. What hours, Catullus, once were thine. How fairly seemed thy day to shine, When lightly thou didst fly to meet The girl whose smile was then so sweet-- The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain Than e'er thy heart can feel again.
Ye met--your souls seemed all in one, Like tapers that commingling shone; Thy heart was warm enough for both, And hers, in truth, was nothing loath.
Such were the hours that once were thine; But, ah! those hours no longer shine. For now the nymph delights no more In what she loved so much before; And all Catullus now can do, Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies, Nor sue the bliss that she denies. False maid! he bids farewell to thee, To love, and all love's misery; The heyday of his heart is o'er, Nor will he court one favor more.
Fly, perjured girl!--but whither fly? Who now will praise thy cheek and eye? Who now will drink the syren tone, Which tells him thou art all his own? Oh, none:--and he who loved before Can never, never love thee more.
* * * * *
_"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more_!" --ST. JOHN, chap. viii.
Oh woman, if through sinful wile Thy soul hath strayed from honor's track, 'Tis mercy only can beguile, By gentle ways, the wanderer back.
The stain that on thy virtue lies, Washed by those tears, not long will stay; As clouds that sully morning skies May all be wept in showers away.
Go, go, be innocent,--and live; The tongues of men may wound thee sore; But Heaven in pity can forgive, And bids thee "go, and sin no more!"
NONSENSE.
Good reader! if you e'er have seen, When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids, with their tresses green, Dancing upon the western billow: If you have seen, at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding shore, If you have seen, through mist of eve, The fairy train their ringlets weave, Glancing along the spangled green:-- If you have seen all this, and more, God bless me, what a deal you've seen!
EPIGRAM.
FROM THE FRENCH.
"I never gave a kiss (says Prue), "To naughty man, for I abhor it." She will not _give_ a kiss, 'tis true; She'll _take_ one though, and thank you for it.
ON A SQUINTING POETESS.
To no _one_ Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once, to _all the Nine_!
TO .... ....
_Maria pur quando vuol, non è bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per esser un Angelo_.[1]
Die when you will, you need not wear At Heaven's Court a form more fair Than Beauty here on earth has given; Keep but the lovely looks we see-- The voice we hear--and you will be An angel ready-made for Heaven!
[1] The words addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbury to the beautiful Nun at Murano.--_See his Life_.
TO ROSA.
_A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti. "Past. Fid_."
And are you then a thing of art, Seducing all, and loving none; And have I strove to gain a heart Which every coxcomb thinks his own?
Tell me at once if this be true, And I will calm my jealous breast; Will learn to join the dangling crew, And share your simpers with the rest.
But if your heart be _not_ so free,-- Oh! if another share that heart, Tell not the hateful tale to me, But mingle mercy with your art.
I'd rather think you "false as hell," Than find you to be all divine,-- Than know that heart could love so well, Yet know that heart would not be mine!
TO PHILLIS.
Phillis, you little rosy rake, That heart of yours I long to rifle; Come, give it me, and do not make So much ado about a _trifle_!
TO A LADY.
ON HER SINGING.
Thy song has taught my heart to feel Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love, Which o'er the sainted spirits steal When listening to the spheres above!
When, tired of life and misery, I wish to sigh my latest breath, Oh, Emma! I will fly to thee, And thou shalt sing me into death.
And if along thy lip and cheek That smile of heavenly softness play, Which,--ah! forgive a mind that's weak,-- So oft has stolen my mind away.
Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky, That comes to charm me into bliss: I'll gaze and die--Who would not die, If death were half so sweet as this?
SONG.
ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MRS. ----.
WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 1799.
Of all my happiest hours of joy, And even I have had my measure, When hearts were full, and every eye Hath kindled with the light of pleasure, An hour like this I ne'er was given, So full of friendship's purest blisses; Young Love himself looks down from heaven, To smile on such a day as this is. Then come, my friends, this hour improve, Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever; And may the birth of her we love Be thus with joy remembered ever!
Oh! banish every thought to-night, Which could disturb our soul's communion; Abandoned thus to dear delight, We'll even for once forget the Union! On that let statesmen try their powers, And tremble o'er the rights they'd die for; The union of the soul be ours, And every union else we sigh for. Then come, my friends, etc.
In every eye around I mark The feelings of the heart o'er-flowing; From every soul I catch the spark Of sympathy, in friendship glowing. Oh! could such moments ever fly; Oh! that we ne'er were doomed to lose 'em; And all as bright as Charlotte's eye, And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom. Then come, my friends, etc.
For me, whate'er my span of years, Whatever sun may light my roving; Whether I waste my life in tears, Or live, as now, for mirth and loving; This day shall come with aspect kind, Wherever fate may cast your rover; He'll think of those he left behind, And drink a health to bliss that's over! Then come, my friends, etc.
SONG.[1]
Mary, I believed thee true, And I was blest in thus believing But now I mourn that e'er I knew A girl so fair and so deceiving. Fare thee well.
Few have ever loved like me,-- Yes, I have loved thee too sincerely! And few have e'er deceived like thee.-- Alas! deceived me too severely.
Fare thee well!--yet think awhile On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee: Who now would rather trust that smile, And die with thee than live without thee.
Fare thee well! I'll think of thee. Thou leavest me many a bitter token; For see, distracting woman, see, My peace is gone, my heart is broken!-- Fare thee well!
[1] These words were written to the pathetic Scotch air "Galla Water."
MORALITY.
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.
ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ. M. R. I. A.
Though long at school and college dozing. O'er books of verse and books of prosing, And copying from their moral pages Fine recipes for making sages; Though long with' those divines at school, Who think to make us good by rule; Who, in methodic forms advancing, Teaching morality like dancing, Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake. What _steps_ we are through life to take: Though thus, my friend, so long employed, With so much midnight oil destroyed, I must confess my searches past, I've only learned _to doubt_ at last I find the doctors and the sages Have differed in all climes and ages, And two in fifty scarce agree On what is pure morality. 'Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone, And every vision makes its own.
The doctors of the Porch advise, As modes of being great and wise, That we should cease to own or know The luxuries that from feeling flow; "Reason alone must claim direction, "And Apathy's the soul's perfection. "Like a dull lake the heart must lie; "Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh, "Though Heaven the breeze, the breath, supplied, "Must curl the wave or swell the tide!"
Such was the rigid Zeno's plan To form his philosophic man; Such were the modes _he_ taught mankind To weed the garden of the mind; They tore from thence some weeds, 'tis true, But all the flowers were ravaged too!
Now listen to the wily strains, Which, on Cyrene's sandy plains, When Pleasure, nymph with loosened zone, Usurped the philosophic throne,-- Hear what the courtly sage's[1] tongue To his surrounding pupils sung:-- "Pleasure's the only noble end "To which all human powers should tend, "And Virtue gives her heavenly lore, "But to make Pleasure please us more. "Wisdom and she were both designed "To make the senses more refined, "That man might revel, free from cloying, "Then most a sage when most enjoying!"
Is this morality?--Oh, no! Even I a wiser path could show. The flower within this vase confined, The pure, the unfading flower of mind, Must not throw all its sweets away Upon a mortal mould of clay; No, no,--its richest breath should rise In virtue's incense to the skies.
But thus it is, all sects we see Have watchwords of morality: Some cry out Venus, others Jove; Here 'tis Religion, there 'tis Love. But while they thus so widely wander, While mystics dream and doctors ponder: And some, in dialectics firm, Seek virtue in a middle term; While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance, To chain morality with science; The plain good man, whose action teach More virtue than a sect can preach Pursues his course, unsagely blest His tutor whispering in his breast; Nor could he act a purer part, Though he had Tully all by heart. And when he drops the tear on woe, He little knows or cares to know That Epictetus blamed that tear, By Heaven approved, to virtue dear!
Oh! when I've seen the morning beam Floating within the dimpled stream; While Nature, wakening from the night, Has just put on her robes of light, Have I, with cold optician's gaze, Explored the _doctrine_ of those rays? No, pedants, I have left to you Nicely to separate hue from hue. Go, give that moment up to art, When Heaven and nature claim the heart; And, dull to all their best attraction, Go--measure _angles of refraction_. While I, in feeling's sweet romance, Look on each daybeam as a glance From the great eye of Him above, Wakening his world with looks of love!
[1] Aristippus.
THE TELL-TALE LYRE.
I've heard, there was in ancient days A Lyre of most melodious spell; 'Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays, If half be true that legends tell.
'Twas played on by the gentlest sighs, And to their breath it breathed again In such entrancing melodies As ear had never drunk till then!
Not harmony's serenest touch So stilly could the notes prolong; They were not heavenly song so much As they were dreams of heavenly song!
If sad the heart, whose murmuring air Along the chords in languor stole, The numbers it awakened there Were eloquence from pity's soul.
Or if the sigh, serene and light, Was but the breath of fancied woes, The string, that felt its airy flight, Soon whispered it to kind repose.
And when young lovers talked alone, If, mid their bliss, that Lyre was near, It made their accents all its own, And sent forth notes that heaven might hear.
There was a nymph, who long had loved, But dared not tell the world how well: The shades, where she at evening roved, Alone could know, alone could tell.
'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole, When the first star announced the night,-- With him who claimed her inmost soul, To wander by that soothing light.
It chanced that, in the fairy bower Where blest they wooed each other's smile, This Lyre, of strange and magic power, Hung whispering o'er their head the while.
And as, with eyes commingling fire, They listened to each other's vow, The youth full oft would make the Lyre A pillow for the maiden's brow!
And, while the melting words she breathed Were by its echoes wafted round, Her locks had with the chords so wreathed, One knew not which gave forth the sound.
Alas, their hearts but little thought, While thus they talked the hours away, That every sound the Lyre was taught Would linger long, and long betray.
So mingled with its tuneful soul Were all the tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswered stole, Nor words it breathed but theirs alone.
Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung To every breeze that wandered by; The secrets of thy gentle tongue Were breathed in song to earth and sky.
The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand Hung high amid the whispering groves, To every gale by which 'twas fanned, Proclaimed the mystery of your loves.
Nor long thus rudely was thy name To earth's derisive echoes given; Some pitying spirit downward came. And took the Lyre and thee to heaven.
There, freed from earth's unholy wrongs, Both happy in Love's home shall be; Thou, uttering naught but seraph songs, And that sweet Lyre still echoing thee!
PEACE AND GLORY.
WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.
Where is now the smile, that lightened Every hero's couch of rest? Where is now the hope, that brightened Honor's eye and Pity's breast? Have we lost the wreath we braided For our weary warrior men? Is the faithless olive faded? Must the bay be plucked again?
Passing hour of sunny weather, Lovely, in your light awhile, Peace and Glory, wed together, Wandered through our blessed isle. And the eyes of Peace would glisten, Dewy as a morning sun, When the timid maid would listen To the deeds her chief had done.
Is their hour of dalliance over? Must the maiden's trembling feet Waft her from her warlike lover To the desert's still retreat? Fare you well! with sighs we banish Nymph so fair and guests so bright; Yet the smile, with which you vanish, Leaves behind a soothing light;--
Soothing light, that long shall sparkle O'er your warrior's sanguined way, Through the field where horrors darkle, Shedding hope's consoling ray. Long the smile his heart will cherish, To its absent idol true; While around him myriads perish, Glory still will sigh for you!
SONG.
Take back the sigh, thy lips of art In passion's moment breathed to me; Yet, no--it must not, will not part, 'Tis now the life-breath of my heart, And has become too pure for thee.
Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh With all the warmth of truth imprest; Yet, no--the fatal kiss may lie, Upon _thy_ lip its sweets would die, Or bloom to make a rival blest.
Take back the vows that, night and day, My heart received, I thought, from thine; Yet, no--allow them still to stay, They might some other heart betray, As sweetly as they've ruined mine.
LOVE AND REASON.
_Quand l'homme commence à raissonner, il cesse de sentir_.--J. J. ROUSSEAU.
'Twas in the summer time so sweet, When hearts and flowers are both in season, That--who, of all the world, should meet, One early dawn, but Love and Reason!
Love told his dream of yesternight, While Reason talked about the weather; The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright, And on they took their way together.
The boy in many a gambol flew, While Reason, like a Juno, stalked, And from her portly figure threw A lengthened shadow, as she walked.
No wonder Love, as on they past, Should find that sunny morning chill, For still the shadow Reason cast Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still.
In vain he tried his wings to warm. Or find a pathway not so dim For still the maid's gigantic form Would stalk between the sun and him.
"This must not be," said little Love-- "The sun was made for more than you." So, turning through a myrtle grove, He bid the portly nymph adieu.
Now gayly roves the laughing boy O'er many a mead, by many a stream; In every breeze inhaling joy, And drinking bliss in every beam.
From all the gardens, all the bowers, He culled the many sweets they shaded, And ate the fruits and smelled the flowers, Till taste was gone and odor faded.
But now the sun, in pomp of noon, Looked blazing o'er the sultry plains; Alas! the boy grew languid soon, And fever thrilled through all his veins.
The dew forsook his baby brow, No more with healthy bloom he smiled-- Oh! where was tranquil Reason now, To cast her shadow o'er the child?
Beneath a green and aged palm, His foot at length for shelter turning, He saw the nymph reclining calm, With brow as cool as his was burning.
"Oh! take me to that bosom cold," In murmurs at her feet he said; And Reason oped her garment's fold, And flung it round his fevered head.
He felt her bosom's icy touch, And soon it lulled his pulse to rest; For, ah! the chill was quite too much, And Love expired on Reason's breast!
* * * * *
Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear; While in these arms you lie. This world hath not a wish, a fear, That ought to cost that eye a tear. That heart, one single sigh.
The world!--ah, Fanny, Love must shun The paths where many rove; One bosom to recline upon, One heart to be his only--one, Are quite enough for Love.
What can we wish, that is not here Between your arms and mine? Is there, on earth, a space so dear As that within the happy sphere Two loving arms entwine?
For me, there's not a lock of jet Adown your temples curled, Within whose glossy, tangling net, My soul doth not, at once, forget All, all this worthless world.
'Tis in those eyes, so full of love, My only worlds I see; Let but _their_ orbs in sunshine move, And earth below and skies above May frown or smile for me.
ASPASIA.
'Twas in the fair Aspasia's bower, That Love and Learning, many an hour, In dalliance met; and Learning smiled With pleasure on the playful child, Who often stole, to find a nest Within the folds of Learning's vest.
There, as the listening statesman hung In transport on Aspasia's tongue, The destinies of Athens took Their color from Aspasia's look. Oh happy time, when laws of state When all that ruled the country's fate, Its glory, quiet, or alarms, Was planned between two snow-white arms!
Blest times! they could not always last-- And yet, even now, they _are_ not past, Though we have lost the giant mould. In which their men were cast of old, Woman, dear woman, still the same, While beauty breathes through soul or frame, While man possesses heart or eyes, Woman's bright empire never dies!
No, Fanny, love, they ne'er shall say, That beauty's charm hath past away; Give but the universe a soul Attuned to woman's soft control, And Fanny hath the charm, the skill, To wield a universe at will.
THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS.[1]
TO HER LOVER.
Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray, That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away? Scarce hadst thou left me, when a dream of night Came o'er my spirit so distinct and bright, That, while I yet can vividly recall Its witching wonders, thou shall hear them all. Methought I saw, upon the lunar beam, Two winged boys, such as thy muse might dream, Descending from above, at that still hour, And gliding, with smooth step, into my bower. Fair as the beauteous spirits that, all day. In Amatha's warm founts imprisoned stay, But rise at midnight, from the enchanted rill, To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill.
At once I knew their mission:--'twas to bear My spirit upward, through the paths of air, To that elysian realm, from whence stray beams So oft, in sleep, had visited my dreams. Swift at their touch dissolved the ties, that clung All earthly round me, and aloft I sprung; While, heavenward guides, the little genii flew Thro' paths of light, refreshed by heaven's own dew, And fanned by airs still fragrant with the breath Of cloudless climes and worlds that know not death.
Thou knowest, that, far beyond our nether sky, And shown but dimly to man's erring eye, A mighty ocean of blue ether rolls,[2] Gemmed with bright islands, where the chosen souls, Who've past in lore and love their earthly hours, Repose for ever in unfading bowers. That very moon, whose solitary light So often guides thee to my bower at night, Is no chill planet, but an isle of love, Floating in splendor through those seas above, And peopled with bright forms, aerial grown, Nor knowing aught of earth but love alone. Thither, I thought, we winged our airy way:-- Mild o'er its valleys streamed a silvery day, While, all around, on lily beds of rest, Reclined the spirits of the immortal Blest. Oh! there I met those few congenial maids, Whom love hath warmed, in philosophic shades; There still Leontium,[3] on her sage's breast, Found lore and love, was tutored and carest; And there the clasp of Pythia's[4]gentle arms Repaid the zeal which deified her charms. The Attic Master,[5] in Aspasia's eyes, Forgot the yoke of less endearing ties; While fair Theano,[6] innocently fair, Wreathed playfully her Samian's flowing hair, Whose soul now fixt, its transmigrations past, Found in those arms a resting-place, at last; And smiling owned, whate'er his dreamy thought In mystic numbers long had vainly sought, The One that's formed of Two whom love hath bound, Is the best number gods or men e'er found.
But think, my Theon, with what joy I thrilled, When near a fount, which through the valley rilled, My fancy's eye beheld a form recline, Of lunar race, but so resembling thine That, oh! 'twas but fidelity in me, To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee. No aid of words the unbodied soul requires, To waft a wish or embassy desires; But by a power, to spirits only given, A deep, mute impulse, only felt in heaven, Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies, From soul to soul the glanced idea flies.
Oh, my beloved, how divinely sweet Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet! Like him, the river-god,[7]whose waters flow, With love their only light, through caves below, Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids, And festal rings, with which Olympic maids Have decked his current, as an offering meet To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.
Think, when he meets at last his fountain-bride, What perfect love must thrill the blended tide! Each lost in each, till, mingling into one, Their lot the same for shadow or for sun, A type of true love, to the deep they run. 'Twas thus-- But, Theon, 'tis an endless theme, And thou growest weary of my half-told dream.
Oh would, my love, we were together now. And I would woo sweet patience to thy brow, And make thee smile at all the magic tales Of starlight bowers and planetary vales, Which my fond soul, inspired by thee and love, In slumber's loom hath fancifully wove. But no; no more--soon as tomorrow's ray O'er soft Ilissus shall have died away, I'll come, and, while love's planet in the west Shines o'er our meeting, tell thee all the rest.
[1] It was imagined by some of the ancients that there is an ethereal ocean above us, and that the sun and moon are two floating, luminous islands, in which the spirits of the blest reside.
[2] This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or "waters above the firmament," was one of the many physical errors In which the early fathers bewildered themselves.
[3] The pupil and mistress of Epicurus, who called her his "dear little Leontium" as appears by a fragment of one of his letters in Laertius. This Leontium was a woman of talent; "she had the impudence (says Cicero) to write against Theophrastus;" and Cicero, at the same time, gives her a name which is neither polite nor translatable.
[4] Pythia was a woman whom Aristotle loved, and to whom after her death he paid divine honors, solemnizing her memory by the same sacrifices which the Athenians offered to the Goddess Ceres.
[5] Socrates, who used to console himself in the society of Aspasia for those "less endearing ties" which he found at home with Xantippe.
[6] There are some sensible letters extant under the name of this fair Pythagorean. They are addressed to her female friends upon the education of children, the treatment of servants, etc.
[7] The river Alpheus, which flowed by Pisa or Olympia, and into which it was customary to throw offerings of different kinds, during the celebration of the Olympic games. In the pretty romance of Clitophon and Leucippe, the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts to the fountain Arethusa.
TO CLOE.
IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.
I could resign that eye of blue. How e'er its splendor used to thrill me; And even that cheek of roseate hue,-- To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me.
That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, However much I've raved about it; And sweetly as that lip can kiss, I _think_ I could exist without it.
In short, so well I've learned to fast, That, sooth my love, I know not whether I might not bring myself at last, To--do without you altogether.
THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN.
I bring thee, love, a golden chain, I bring thee too a flowery wreath; The gold shall never wear a stain, The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe. Come, tell me which the tie shall be, To bind thy gentle heart to me.
The Chain is formed of golden threads, Bright as Minerva's yellow hair, When the last beam of evening sheds Its calm and sober lustre there. The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove, With sunlit drops of bliss among it, And many a rose-leaf, culled by Love, To heal his lip when bees have stung it. Come, tell me which the tie shall be, To bind thy gentle heart to me.
Yes, yes, I read that ready eye, Which answers when the tongue is loath, Thou likest the form of either tie, And spreadest thy playful hands for both. Ah!--if there were not something wrong, The world would see them blended oft; The Chain would make the Wreath so strong! The Wreath would make the Chain so soft! Then might the gold, the flowerets be Sweet fetters for my love and me.
But, Fanny, so unblest they twine, That (heaven alone can tell the reason) When mingled thus they cease to shine, Or shine but for a transient season. Whether the Chain may press too much, Or that the Wreath is slightly braided, Let but the gold the flowerets touch, And all their bloom, their glow is faded! Oh! better to be always free. Than thus to bind my love to me.
* * * * *
The timid girl now hung her head, And, as she turned an upward glance, I saw a doubt its twilight spread Across her brow's divine expanse Just then, the garland's brightest rose Gave one of its love-breathing sighs-- Oh! who can ask how Fanny chose, That ever looked in Fanny's eyes! "The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be "The tie to bind my soul to thee."
TO .... ....
And hast thou marked the pensive shade, That many a time obscures my brow, Midst all the joys, beloved maid. Which thou canst give, and only thou?
Oh! 'tis not that I then forget The bright looks that before me shine; For never throbbed a bosom yet Could feel their witchery, like mine.
When bashful on my bosom hid, And blushing to have felt so blest, Thou dost but lift thy languid lid Again to close it on my breast;--
Yes,--these are minutes all thine own, Thine own to give, and mine to feel; Yet even in them, my heart has known The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.
For I have thought of former hours, When he who first thy soul possest, Like me awaked its witching powers, Like me was loved, like me was blest.
Upon _his_ name thy murmuring tongue Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt; Upon his words thine ear hath hung, With transport all as purely felt.
For him--yet why the past recall, To damp and wither present bliss? Thou'rt now my own, heart, spirit, all, And heaven could grant no more than this!
Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive; I would be first, be sole to thee, Thou shouldst have but begun to live, The hour that gave thy heart to me.
Thy book of life till then effaced, Love should have kept that leaf alone On which he first so brightly traced That thou wert, soul and all, my own.
TO .......'S PICTURE.
Go then, if she, whose shade thou art, No more will let thee soothe my pain; Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart Some pangs, to give thee back again.
Tell her, the smile was not so dear, With which she made the semblance mine, As bitter is the burning tear, With which I now the gift resign.
Yet go--and could she still restore, As some exchange for taking thee. The tranquil look which first I wore, When her eyes found me calm and free;
Could she give back the careless flow, The spirit that my heart then knew-- Yet, no, 'tis vain--go, picture, go-- Smile at me once, and then--adieu!
FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.[1]
Blest infant of eternity! Before the day-star learned to move, In pomp of fire, along his grand career, Glancing the beamy shafts of light
From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere, Thou wert alone, oh Love! Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night, Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee. No form of beauty soothed thine eye, As through the dim expanse it wandered wide; No kindred spirit caught thy sigh, As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.
Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power, That latent in his heart was sleeping,-- Oh Sympathy! that lonely hour Saw Love himself thy absence weeping.
But look, what glory through the darkness beams! Celestial airs along the water glide:-- What Spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide So beautiful? oh, not of earth, But, in that glowing hour, the birth Of the young Godhead's own creative dreams. 'Tis she! Psyche, the firstborn spirit of the air. To thee, oh Love, she turns,
On thee her eyebeam burns: Blest hour, before all worlds ordained to be! They meet-- The blooming god--the spirit fair Meet in communion sweet. Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine; All Nature feels the thrill divine, The veil of Chaos is withdrawn, And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn!
[1] Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and passive principles of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its first harmonizing impulse from the nuptial sympathy between these two powers. A marriage is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timaeus held Form to be the father, and Matter the mother of the World.
TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES.
_Donington Park, 1802_
To catch the thought, by painting's spell, Howe'er remote, howe'er refined, And o'er the kindling canvas tell The silent story of the mind;
O'er nature's form to glance the eye, And fix, by mimic light and shade, Her morning tinges ere they fly, Her evening blushes, ere they fade;
Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers, The gift, by which her art divine Above all others proudly towers,-- And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.
And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace, In almost living truth exprest, This bright memorial of a face On which her eye delights to rest;
While o'er the lovely look serene, The smile of peace, the bloom of youth, The cheek, that blushes to be seen. The eye that tells the bosom's truth;
While o'er each line, so brightly true, Our eyes with lingering pleasure rove, Blessing the touch whose various hue Thus brings to mind the form we love;
We feel the magic of thy art, And own it with a zest, a zeal, A pleasure, nearer to the heart Than critic taste can _ever_ feel.
THE FALL OF HEBE.
A DITHYRAMBIC ODE.
'Twas on a day When the immortals at their banquet lay; The bowl Sparkled with starry dew, The weeping of those myriad urns of light, Within whose orbs, the Almighty Power, At nature's dawning hour, Stored the rich fluid of ethereal soul. Around, Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight From eastern isles (Where they have bathed them in the orient ray, And with rich fragrance all their bosoms filled). In circles flew, and, melting as they flew, A liquid daybreak o'er the board distilled.
All, all was luxury! All _must_ be luxury, where Lyaeus smiles. His locks divine Were crowned With a bright meteor-braid, Which, like an ever-springing wreath of vine, Shot into brilliant leafy shapes, And o'er his brow in lambent tendrils played: While mid the foliage hung, Like lucid grapes, A thousand clustering buds of light, Culled from the garden of the galaxy.
Upon his bosom Cytherea's head Lay lovely, as when first the Syrens sung Her beauty's dawn, And all the curtains of the deep, undrawn, Revealed her sleeping in its azure bed. The captive deity Hung lingering on her eyes and lip, With looks of ecstasy. Now, on his arm, In blushes she reposed, And, while he gazed on each bright charm, To shade his burning eyes her hand in dalliance stole.
And now she raised her rosy mouth to sip The nectared wave Lyaeus gave, And from her eyelids, half-way closed, Sent forth a melting gleam, Which fell like sun-dew in the bowl: While her bright hair, in mazy flow Of gold descending Adown her cheek's luxurious glow, Hung o'er the goblet's side, And was reflected in its crystal tide, Like a bright crocus flower, Whose sunny leaves, at evening hour With roses of Cyrene blending,[1] Hang o'er the mirror of some silvery stream.
The Olympian cup Shone in the hands Of dimpled Hebe, as she winged her feet Up The empyreal mount, To drain the soul-drops at their stellar fount;[2] And still As the resplendent rill Gushed forth into the cup with mantling heat, Her watchful care Was still to cool its liquid fire With snow-white sprinklings of that feathery air The children of the Pole respire, In those enchanted lands.[3] Where life is all a spring, and north winds never blow.
But oh! Bright Hebe, what a tear, And what a blush were thine, When, as the breath of every Grace Wafted thy feet along the studded sphere, With a bright cup for Jove himself to drink, Some star, that shone beneath thy tread, Raising its amorous head To kiss those matchless feet, Checked thy career too fleet, And all heaven's host of eyes Entranced, but fearful all, Saw thee, sweet Hebe, prostrate fall Upon the bright floor of the azure skies; Where, mid its stars, thy beauty lay, As blossom, shaken from the spray Of a spring thorn, Lies mid the liquid sparkles of the morn. Or, as in temples of the Paphian shade, The worshippers of Beauty's queen behold An image of their rosy idol, laid Upon a diamond shrine.
The wanton wind, Which had pursued the flying fair, And sported mid the tresses unconfined Of her bright hair, Now, as she fell,--oh wanton breeze! Ruffled the robe, whose graceful flow Hung o'er those limbs of unsunned snow, Purely as the Eleusinian veil Hangs o'er the Mysteries!
The brow of Juno flushed-- Love blest the breeze! The Muses blushed; And every cheek was hid behind a lyre, While every eye looked laughing through the strings. But the bright cup? the nectared draught Which Jove himself was to have quaffed? Alas, alas, upturned it lay By the fallen Hebe's side; While, in slow lingering drops, the ethereal tide, As conscious of its own rich essence, ebbed away.
Who was the Spirit that remembered Man, In that blest hour, And, with a wing of love, Brushed off the goblet's scattered tears, As, trembling near the edge of heaven they ran, And sent them floating to our orb below? Essence of immortality! The shower Fell glowing through the spheres; While all around new tints of bliss, New odors and new light, Enriched its radiant flow. Now, with a liquid kiss, It stole along the thrilling wire Of Heaven's luminous Lyre, Stealing the soul of music in its flight: And now, amid the breezes bland, That whisper from the planets as they roll, The bright libation, softly fanned By all their sighs, meandering stole. They who, from Atlas' height, Beheld this rosy flame Descending through the waste of night, Thought 'twas some planet, whose empyreal frame Had kindled, as it rapidly revolved Around its fervid axle, and dissolved Into a flood so bright!
The youthful Day, Within his twilight bower, Lay sweetly sleeping On the flushed bosom of a lotos-flower;[4] When round him, in profusion weeping, Dropt the celestial shower, Steeping The rosy clouds, that curled About his infant head, Like myrrh upon the locks of Cupid shed. But, when the waking boy Waved his exhaling tresses through the sky, O morn of joy! The tide divine, All glorious with the vermil dye It drank beneath his orient eye, Distilled, in dews, upon the world, And every drop was wine, was heavenly WINE! Blest be the sod, and blest the flower On which descended first that shower, All fresh from Jove's nectareous springs;-- Oh far less sweet the flower, the sod, O'er which the Spirit of the Rainbow flings The magic mantle of her solar God![5]
[1] We learn from Theopbrastus, that the roses of Cyrene were particularly fragrant.
[2] Heraclitus (Physicus) held the soul to be a spark of the stellar essence.
[3] The country of the Hyperboreans. These people were supposed to be placed so far north that the north wind could not affect them; they lived longer than any other mortals; passed their whole time in music and dancing, etc.
[4] The Egyptians represented the dawn of day by a young boy seated upon a lotos. Observing that the lotos showed its head above water at sunrise, and sank again at his setting, they conceived the idea of consecrating this flower to Osiris, or the sun.
[5] The ancients esteemed those flowers and trees the sweetest upon which the rainbow had appeared to rest; and the wood they chiefly burned in sacrifices, was that which the smile of Iris had consecrated.
RINGS AND SEALS.
"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid, "The charm is broken!--once betrayed, "Never can this wronged heart rely "On word or look, on oath or sigh. "Take back the gifts, so fondly given, "With promised faith and vows to heaven; "That little ring which, night and morn, "With wedded truth my hand hath worn; "That seal which oft, in moments blest, "Thou hast upon my lip imprest, "And sworn its sacred spring should be "A fountain sealed[1] for only thee: "Take, take them back, the gift and vow, "All sullied, lost and hateful now!"
I took the ring--the seal I took, While, oh, her every tear and look Were such as angels look and shed, When man is by the world misled. Gently I whispered, "Fanny, dear! "Not half thy lover's gifts are here: "Say, where are all the kisses given, "From morn to noon, from noon to even,-- "Those signets of true love, worth more "Than Solomon's own seal of yore,-- "Where are those gifts, so sweet, so many? "Come, dearest,--give back all, if any." While thus I whispered, trembling too, Lest all the nymph had sworn was true, I saw a smile relenting rise Mid the moist azure of her eyes, Like daylight o'er a sea of blue, While yet in mid-air hangs the dew She let her cheek repose on mine, She let my arms around her twine; One kiss was half allowed, and then-- The ring and seal were hers again.
[1] "There are gardens, supposed to be those of King Solomon, in the neighborhood of Bethlehem. The friars show a fountain, which, they say, is the sealed fountain, to which the holy spouse in the Canticles is compared; and they pretend a tradition, that Solomon shut up these springs and put his signet upon the door, to keep them for his own drinking."--_Maundrell's Travels_.
TO MISS SUSAN BECKFORD.[1]
ON HER SINGING.
I more than once have heard at night A song like those thy lip hath given, And it was sung by shapes of light, Who looked and breathed, like thee, of heaven.
But this was all a dream of sleep. And I have said when morning shone:-- "Why should the night-witch, Fancy, keep "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 A voice, a form like thine on earth.
And yet, in all that flowery maze Through which my path of life has led, When I have heard the sweetest lays From lips of rosiest lustre shed;
When I have felt the warbled word From Beauty's lip, in sweetness vying With music's own melodious bird; When on the rose's bosom lying
Though form and song at once combined Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill, My heart hath sighed, my ear hath pined For something lovelier, softer still:--
Oh, I have found it all, at last, In thee, thou sweetest living lyre, Through which the soul of song e'er past, Or feeling breathed its sacred fire.
All that I e'er, in wildest flight Of fancy's dreams could hear or see Of music's sigh or beauty's light Is realized, at once, in thee!
[1] Afterward Duchess of Hamilton.
IMPROMPTU,
ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS.
_o dulces comitum valete coetus_! CATULLUS.
No, never shall my soul forget The friends I found so cordial-hearted; Dear shall be the day we met, And dear shall be the night we parted.
If fond regrets, however sweet, Must with the lapse of time decay, Yet stall, when thus in mirth you meet, Fill high to him that's far away!
Long be the light of memory found Alive within your social glass; Let that be still the magic round. O'er which Oblivion, dare not pass.
A WARNING.
TO .......
Oh, fair as heaven and chaste as light! Did nature mould thee all so bright. That thou shouldst e'er be brought to weep O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep, O'er shame extinguished, honor fled, Peace lost, heart withered, 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, In lines of light such heavenly lore That men should read them and adore. Yet have I known a gentle maid Whose mind and form were both arrayed In nature's purest light, like thine;-- Who wore that clear, celestial sign Which seems to mark the brow that's fair For destiny's peculiar care; Whose bosom, too, like Dian's own, Was guarded by a sacred zone, Where the bright gem of virtue shone; Whose eyes had in their light a charm Against all wrong and guile and harm. Yet, hapless maid, in one sad hour These spells have lost their guardian power; The gem has been beguiled away; Her eyes have lost their chastening ray; The modest pride, the guiltless shame, The smiles that from reflection came, All, all have fled and left her mind A faded monument behind; The ruins of a once pure shrine, No longer fit for guest divine, Oh! 'twas a sight I wept to see-- Heaven keep the lost one's fate from thee!
TO .......
'Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now, While yet my soul is something free; While yet those dangerous eyes allow One minute's thought to stray from thee.
Oh! thou becom'st each moment 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, Doom me not thus so soon to fall Duties, fame, and hopes await me,-- But that eye would blast them all!
For, thou hast heart as false and cold As ever yet allured and swayed, And couldst, without a sigh, behold The ruin which thyself had made.
Yet,--_could_ I think that, truly fond, That eye but once would smile on me, Even as thou art, how far beyond Fame, duty, wealth, that smile would be!
Oh! but to win it, night and day, Inglorious at thy feet reclined, I'd sigh my dreams of fame away, The world for thee forgot, resigned.
But no, 'tis o'er, and--thus we part, Never to meet again--no, never, False woman, what a mind and heart Thy treachery has undone forever.
WOMAN.
Away, away--you're all the same, A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng; And, wise too late, I burn with shame, To think I've been your slave so long.
Slow to be won, and quick to rove, From folly kind, from cunning loath, Too cold for bliss, too weak for love, Yet feigning all that's best in both;
Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,-- More joy it gives to woman's breast To make ten frigid coxcombs vain, Than one true, manly lover blest.
Away, away--your smile's a curse-- Oh! blot me from the race of men, Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse, If e'er I love such things again.
TO .......
Come, take thy harp--'tis vain to muse Upon the gathering ills we see; Oh! take thy harp and let me lose All thoughts of ill in hearing thee.
Sing to me, love!--Though death were near, Thy song could make my soul forget-- Nay, nay, in pity, dry that tear, All may be well, be happy yet.
Let me but see that snowy arm Once more upon the dear harp lie, And I will cease to dream of harm, Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh.
Give me that strain of mournful touch We used to love long, long ago, Before our hearts had known as much As now, alas! they bleed to know.
Sweet notes! they tell of former peace, Of all that looked so smiling then, Now vanished, lost--oh, pray thee cease, I cannot bear those sounds again.
Art _thou_, too, wretched? Yes, thou art; I see thy tears flow fast with mine-- Come, come to this devoted heart, 'Tis breaking, but it still is thine!
A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY.
'Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met The venerable man;[1] a healthy bloom Mingled its softness with the vigorous thought That towered upon his brow; and when he spoke 'Twas language sweetened into song--such holy sounds As oft, they say, the wise and virtuous hear, Prelusive to the harmony of heaven, When death is nigh; and still, as he unclosed[2] His sacred lips, an odor, all as bland As ocean-breezes gather from the flowers That blossom in Elysium, breathed around, With silent awe we listened, while he told Of the dark veil which many an age had hung O'er Nature's form, till, long explored by man, The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous, And glimpses of that heavenly form shone through:-- Of magic wonders, that were known and taught By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named) Who mused amid the mighty cataclysm, O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore; And gathering round him, in the sacred ark, The mighty secrets of that former globe, Let not the living star of science sink Beneath the waters, which ingulfed a world!-- Of visions, by Calliope revealed To him,[3]who traced upon his typic lyre The diapason of man's mingled frame, And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven. With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane, Which the grave sons of Mochus, many a night, Told to the young and bright-haired visitant Of Carmel's sacred mount.--Then, in a flow Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on Through many a Maze of Garden and of Porch, Through many a system, where the scattered light Of heavenly truth lay, like a broken beam From the pure sun, which, though refracted all Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still,[4] And bright through every change!--he spoke of Him, The lone, eternal One, who dwells above, And of the soul's untraceable descent From that high fount of spirit, through the grades Of intellectual being, till it mix With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark; Nor yet even then, though sunk in earthly dross, Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still. As some bright river, which has rolled along Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold, When poured at length into the dusky deep, Disdains to take at once its briny taint, Or balmy freshness, of the scenes it left. But keeps unchanged awhile the lustrous tinge, And here the old man ceased--a winged train Of nymphs and genii bore him from our eyes. The fair illusion fled! and, as I waked, 'Twas clear that my rapt soul had roamed, the while, To that bright realm of dreams, that spirit-world, Which mortals know by its long track of light O'er midnight's sky, and call the Galaxy.[5]
[1] In Plutarch's Essay on the Decline of the Oracles, Cleombrotus, one of the interlocutors, describes an extraordinary man whom he had met with, after long research, upon the banks of the Red Sea. Once in every year this supernatural personage appeared to mortals and conversed with them; the rest of his time he passed among the Genii and the Nymphs.
[2] The celebrated Janus Dousa, a little before his death, imagined that he heard a strain of music in the air.
[3] Orpheus.--Paulinus, in his "_Hebdomades_, cap. 2, _lib_. iii, has endeavored to show, after the Platonists, that man is a diapason, or octave, made up of a diatesseron, which is his soul, and a dispente, which is his body. Those frequent allusions to music, by which the ancient philosophers illustrated their sublime theories, must have tended very much to elevate the character of the art, and to enrich it with associations of the grandest and most interesting nature.
[4] Lactantius asserts that all the truths of Christianity may be found dispersed through the ancient philosophical sects, and that any one who would collect these scattered fragments of orthodoxy might form a code in no respect differing from that of the Christian.
[5] According to Pythagoras, the people of Dreams are souls collected together in the Galaxy.
TO MRS. .......
To see thee every day that came, And find thee still each day the same; In pleasure's smile or sorrow's tear To me still ever kind and dear;-- To meet thee early, leave thee late, Has been so long my bliss, my fate, That life, without this cheering ray, Which came, like sunshine, every day, And all my pain, my sorrow chased, Is now a lone, a loveless waste.
Where are the chords she used to touch? The airs, the songs she loved so much? Those songs are hushed, those chords are still, And so, perhaps, will every thrill Of feeling soon be lulled to rest, Which late I waked in Anna's breast. Yet, no--the simple notes I played From memory's tablet soon may fade; The songs, which Anna loved to hear, May vanish from her heart and ear; But friendship's voice shall ever find An echo in that gentle mind, Nor memory lose nor time impair The sympathies that tremble there.
TO LADY HEATHCOTE,
ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS.
_"Tunnebridge est à la même distance de Londres, que Fontainebleau l'est de Paris. Ce qu'il y a de beau et de galant dans l'un et dans l'autre sexe s'y rassemble au terns des eaux. La compagnie,"_ etc. --See _Memoires de Grammont_, Second Part, chap. iii.
_Tunbridge Wells_.
When Grammont graced these happy springs, And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles, The merriest wight of all the kings That ever ruled these gay, gallant isles;
Like us, by day, they rode, they walked, At eve they did as we may do, And Grammont just like Spencer talked, And lovely Stewart smiled like you.
The only different trait is this, That woman then, if man beset her, Was rather given to saying "yes," Because,--as yet, she knew no better.
Each night they held a coterie, Where, every fear to slumber charmed, Lovers were all they ought to be, And husbands not the least alarmed.
Then called they up their school-day pranks, Nor thought it much their sense beneath To play at riddles, quips, and cranks, And lords showed wit, and ladies teeth.
As--"Why are husbands like the mint?" Because, forsooth, a husband's duty Is but to set the name and print That give a currency to beauty.
"Why is a rose in nettles hid Like a young widow, fresh and fair?" Because 'tis sighing to be rid Of weeds, that "have no business there!"
And thus they missed and thus they hit, And now they struck and now they parried; And some lay in of full grown wit. While others of a pun miscarried,
'Twas one of those facetious nights That Grammont gave this forfeit ring For breaking grave conundrumrites, Or punning ill, or--some such thing;--
From whence it can be fairly traced, Through many a branch and many a bough, From twig to twig, until it graced The snowy hand that wears it now.
All this I'll prove, and then, to you Oh Tunbridge! and your springs ironical, I swear by Heathcote's eye of blue To dedicate the important chronicle.
Long may your ancient inmates give Their mantles to your modern lodgers, And Charles's loves in Heathcote live, And Charles's bards revive in Rogers.
Let no pedantic fools be there; For ever be those fops abolished, With heads as wooden as thy ware, And, heaven knows! not half so polished.
But still receive the young, the gay. The few who know the rare delight Of reading Grammont every day, And acting Grammont every night.
THE DEVIL AMONG THE SCHOLARS,
A FRAGMENT.
* * * * *
But, whither have these gentle ones, These rosy nymphs and black-eyed nuns, With all of Cupid's wild romancing, Led by truant brains a-dancing? Instead of studying tomes scholastic, Ecclesiastic, or monastic, Off I fly, careering far In chase of Pollys, prettier far Than any of their namesakes are,-- The Polymaths and Polyhistors, Polyglots and all their sisters.
So have I known a hopeful youth Sit down in quest of lore and truth, With tomes sufficient to confound him, Like Tohu Bohu, heapt around him,-- Mamurra[1] stuck to Theophrastus, And Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus.[2] When lo! while all that's learned and wise Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes, And through the window of his study Beholds some damsel fair and ruddy, With eyes, as brightly turned upon him as The angel's[3] were on Hieronymus. Quick fly the folios, widely scattered, Old Homer's laureled brow is battered, And Sappho, headlong sent, flies just in The reverend eye of St. Augustin. Raptured he quits each dozing sage, Oh woman, for thy lovelier page: Sweet book!--unlike the books of art,-- Whose errors are thy fairest part; In whom the dear errata column Is the best page in all the volume![4] But to begin my subject rhyme-- 'Twas just about this devilish time, When scarce there happened any frolics That were not done by Diabolics, A cold and loveless son of Lucifer, Who woman scorned, nor saw the use of her, A branch of Dagon's family, (Which Dagon, whether He or She, Is a dispute that vastly better is Referred to Scaliger[5] _et coeteris_,) Finding that, in this cage of fools, The wisest sots adorn the schools, Took it at once his head Satanic in, To grow a great scholastic manikin,-- A doctor, quite as learned and fine as Scotus John or Tom Aquinas, Lully, Hales Irrefragabilis, Or any doctor of the rabble is. In languages, the Polyglots, Compared to him, were Babelsots: He chattered more than ever Jew did;-- Sanhedrim and Priest included, Priest and holy Sanhedrim Were one-and-seventy fools to him. But chief the learned demon felt a Zeal so strong for gamma, delta, That, all for Greek and learning's glory,[6] He nightly tippled "Graeco more," And never paid a bill or balance Except upon the Grecian Kalends:-- From whence your scholars, when they want tick, Say, to be Attic's to be _on_ tick. In logics, he was quite Ho Panu; Knew as much as ever man knew. He fought the combat syllogistic With so much skill and art eristic, That though you were the learned Stagyrite, At once upon the hip he had you right. In music, though he had no ears Except for that amongst the spheres, (Which most of all, as he averred it, He dearly loved, 'cause no one heard it,) Yet aptly he, at sight, could read Each tuneful diagram in Bede, And find, by Euclid's corollaria, The ratios of a jig or aria. But, as for all your warbling Delias, Orpheuses and Saint Cecilias, He owned he thought them much surpast By that redoubted Hyaloclast[7] Who still contrived by dint of throttle, Where'er he went to crack a bottle.
Likewise to show his mighty knowledge, he, On things unknown in physiology, Wrote many a chapter to divert us, (Like that great little man Albertus,) Wherein he showed the reason why, When children first are heard to cry, If boy the baby chance to be. He cries O A!--if girl, O E!-- Which are, quoth he, exceeding fair hints Respecting their first sinful parents; "Oh Eve!" exclaimeth little madam, While little master cries "Oh Adam!"
But, 'twas in Optics and Dioptrics, Our daemon played his first and top tricks. He held that sunshine passes quicker Through wine than any other liquor; And though he saw no great objection To steady light and clear reflection, He thought the aberrating rays, Which play about a bumper's blaze, Were by the Doctors looked, in common, on, As a more rare and rich phenomenon. He wisely said that the sensorium Is for the eyes a great emporium, To which these noted picture-stealers Send all they can and meet with dealers. In many an optical proceeding The brain, he said, showed great good breeding; For instance, when we ogle women (A trick which Barbara tutored him in), Although the dears are apt to get in a Strange position on the retina, Yet instantly the modest brain Doth set them on their legs again!
Our doctor thus, with "stuft sufficiency" Of all omnigenous omnisciency, Began (as who would not begin That had, like him, so much within?) To let it out in books of all sorts, Folios, quartos, large and small sorts; Poems, so very deep and sensible That they were quite incomprehensible Prose, which had been at learning's Fair, And bought up all the trumpery there, The tattered rags of every vest, In which the Greeks and Romans drest, And o'er her figure swollen and antic Scattered them all with airs so frantic, That those, who saw what fits she had, Declared unhappy Prose was mad! Epics he wrote and scores of rebuses, All as neat as old Turnebus's; Eggs and altars, cyclopaedias, Grammars, prayer-books--oh! 'twere tedious, Did I but tell thee half, to follow me: Not the scribbling bard of Ptolemy, No--nor the hoary Trismegistus, (Whose writings all, thank heaven! have missed us,) E'er filled with lumber such a wareroom As this great "_porcus literarum_!"
[1] Mamurra, a dogmatic philosopher, who never doubted about anything, except who was his father.
[2] Bombastus was one of the names of that great scholar and quack Paracelsus. He used to fight the devil every night with a broadsword, to the no small terror of his pupil Oporinus, who has recorded the circumstance.
[3] The angel, who scolded St. Jerome for reading Cicero, as Gratian tells the story in his "_concordantia discordantium Canonum_," and says, that for this reason bishops were not allowed to read the Classics.
[4] The idea of the Rabbins, respecting the origin of woman, is not a little singular. They think that man was originally formed with a tail, like a monkey, but that the Deity cut off this appendage, and made woman of it.
[5] Scaliger.--Dagon was thought by others to be a certain sea-monster, who came every day out of the Red Sea to teach the Syrians husbandry.
[6] It is much to be regretted that Martin Luther, with all his talents for reforming, should yet be vulgar enough to laugh at Camerarius for writing to him in Greek, "Master Joachim (says he) has sent me some dates and some raisins, and has also written me two letters in Greek. As soon as I am recovered, I shall answer them in Turkish, that he too may have the pleasure of reading what he does not understand."
[7] Or Glass-breaker--Morhofius has given an account of this extraordinary man, in a work, published 1682.
* * * * *
POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA
TO FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA.
GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER-GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE, CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC.
MY LORD,
It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lordship without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eulogium on Hercules. "Oh Hercules!" said the honest Spartan, "who ever thought of blaming Hercules?" In a similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the panegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task. I shall, therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to the very humble tribute of gratitude which I have here the honor to present.
I am, my Lord, With every feeling of attachment and respect, Your Lordship's very devoted Servant,
THOMAS MOORE.
_37 Bury Street, St. James's, April 10, 1806_.
PREFACE.[1]
The principal poems in the following collection were written during an absence of fourteen months from Europe. Though curiosity was certainly not the motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened that the gratification of curiosity was the only advantage which I derived from it. Finding myself in the country of a new people, whose infancy had promised so much, and whose progress to maturity has been an object of such interesting speculation, I determined to employ the short period of time, which my plan of return to Europe afforded me, in travelling through a few of the States, and acquiring some knowledge of the inhabitants.
The impression which my mind received from the character and manners of these republicans, suggested the Epistles which are written from the city of Washington and Lake Erie.[2] How far I was right in thus assuming the tone of a satirist against a people whom I viewed but as a stranger and a visitor, is a doubt which my feelings did not allow me time to investigate. All I presume to answer for is the fidelity of the picture which I have given; and though prudence might have dictated gentler language, truth, I think, would have justified severer.
I went to America with prepossessions by no means unfavorable, and indeed rather indulged in many of those illusive ideas, with respect to the purity of the government and the primitive happiness of the people, which I had early imbibed In my native country, where, unfortunately, discontent at home enhances every distant temptation, and the western world has long been looked to as a retreat from real or imaginary oppression; as, in short, the elysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their visions realized, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and repose. In all these flattering expectations I found myself completely disappointed, and felt inclined to say to America, as Horace says to his mistress, "_intentata nites_." Brissot, in the preface to his travels, observes, that "freedom in that country is carried to so high a degree as to border upon a state of nature;" and there certainly is a close approximation to savage life not only in the liberty which they enjoy, but in the violence of party spirit and of private animosity which results from it. This illiberal zeal imbitters all social intercourse; and, though I scarcely could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared to me the more pure and rational, yet I was sorry to observe that, in asserting their opinions, they both assume an equal share of intolerance; the Democrats consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgarity of rancor, which the Federalists too often are so forgetful of their cause as to imitate.
The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and indeed the unpolished state of society in general, would neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed to flow from that simplicity of character, that honest ignorance of the gloss of refinement which may be looked for in a new and inexperienced people. But, when we find them arrived at maturity in most of the vices, and all the pride of civilization, while they are still so far removed from its higher and better characteristics, it is impossible not to feel that this youthful decay, this crude anticipation of the natural period of corruption, must repress every sanguine hope of the future energy and greatness of America.
I am conscious that, in venturing these few remarks, I have said just enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to convince; for the limits of a preface prevent me from entering into a justification of my opinions, and I am committed on the subject as effectually as if I had written volumes in their defence. My reader, however, is apprised of the very cursory observation upon which these opinions are founded, and can easily decide for himself upon the degree of attention or confidence which they merit.
With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the following pages, I know not in what manner to apologize to the public for intruding upon their notice such a mass of unconnected trifles, such a world of epicurean atoms as I have here brought in conflict together. To say that I have been tempted by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse which can hope for but little indulgence from the critic; yet I own that, without this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for such imperfect productions: they should be shown but to the eye of friendship, in that dim light of privacy which is as favorable to poetical as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for faults, while it enhances every charm which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle occupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more
## active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read such trifles, and
I most sincerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them.
[1] This Preface, as well as the Dedication which precedes it, were prefixed originally to the miscellaneous volume entitled "Odes and Epistles," of which, hitherto, the poems relating to my American tour have formed a part.
[2] Epistles VI., VII., and VIII.
POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA.
TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.
ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT.
Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,[1] By any spell my hand could dare To make thy disk its ample page, And write my thoughts, my wishes there; How many a friend, whose careless eye Now wanders o'er that starry sky, Should smile, upon thy orb to meet The recollection, kind and sweet, The reveries of fond regret, The promise, never to forget, And all my heart and soul would send To many a dear-loved, distant friend.
How little, when we parted last, I thought those pleasant times were past, For ever past, when brilliant joy Was all my vacant heart's employ: When, fresh from mirth to mirth again, We thought the rapid hours too few; Our only use for knowledge then To gather bliss from all we knew. Delicious days of whim and soul! When, mingling lore and laugh together, We leaned the book on Pleasure's bowl, And turned the leaf with Folly's feather. Little I thought that all were fled, That, ere that summer's bloom was shed, My eye should see the sail unfurled That wafts me to the western world.
And yet, 'twas time;--in youth's sweet days, To cool that season's glowing rays, The heart awhile, with wanton wing, May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring; But, if it wait for winter's breeze, The spring will chill, the heart will freeze. And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,-- Oh! she awaked such happy dreams, And gave my soul such tempting scope For all its dearest, fondest schemes, _That not Verona's child of song_, When flying from the Phrygian shore, With lighter heart could bound along, Or pant to be a wanderer more!
Even now delusive hope will steal Amid the dark regrets I feel, Soothing, as yonder placid beam Pursues the murmurers of the deep, And lights them with consoling gleam, And smiles them into tranquil sleep. Oh! such a blessed night as this, I often think, if friends were near, How we should feel, and gaze with bliss Upon the moon-bright scenery here! The sea is like a silvery lake, And, o'er its calm the vessel glides Gently, as if it feared to wake The slumber of the silent tides. The only envious cloud that lowers Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,[2] Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers, And scowling at this heaven of light, Exults to see the infant storm Cling darkly round his giant form!
Now, could I range those verdant isles, Invisible, at this soft hour, And see the looks, the beaming smiles, That brighten many an orange bower; And could I lift each pious veil, And see the blushing cheek it shades,-- Oh! I should have full many a tale, To tell of young Azorian maids.[3] Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps, Some lover (not too idly blest, Like those, who in their ladies' laps May cradle every wish to rest,) Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul, Those madrigals, of breath divine, Which Camoens' harp from Rapture stole And gave, all glowing warm, to thine.[4] 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.
[1] Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the Moon by the means of a magic mirror.--See _Boyle_, art. _Pythag_.
[2] A very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the island derives its name. It is said by some to be as high as the Peak of Teneriffe.
[3] I believe it is Gutherie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores are much addicted to gallantry. This is an assertion in which even Gutherie may be credited.
[4] These islands belong to the Portuguese.
STANZAS.
A beam of tranquillity smiled in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no more; And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest. Still heaved, 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 becalmed but remembered 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 heaven, may be quenched in the clay;
And I prayed 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 borrowed from Him.
How blest was the thought! it appeared as if Heaven Had already an opening to Paradise shown; As if, passion all chastened and error forgiven, My heart then began to be purely its own.
I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more: "Oh! thus," I exclaimed, "may a heavenly eye "Shed light on the soul that was darkened before."
TO THE FLYING-FISH.[1]
When I have seen thy snow-white wing From the blue wave at evening spring, And show those scales of silvery white, So gayly to the eye of light, As if thy frame were formed 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.
[1] 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 similitude between them. 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.
TO MISS MOORE.
FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.
In days, my Kate, when life was new, When, lulled with innocence and you, 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 blest them into pure repose; Then, haply if a week, a day, I lingered from that home away, How long the little absence seemed! How bright the look of welcome beamed, As mute you heard, with eager smile, My tales of all that past the while!
Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea Bolls wide between that home and me; The moon may thrice be born and die, Ere even that seal can reach mine eye. Which used so oft, so quick to come, Still breathing all the breath of home,-- As if, still fresh, the cordial air From lips beloved were lingering there. But now, alas,--far different fate! It comes o'er ocean, slow and late, When the dear hand that filled 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 hurled 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, Smiles on the dusky webs that hide His sleeping sword's remembered 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 cultured field; And he, who came, of all bereft, To whom malignant fate had left Nor hope 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 even a glimpse my eyes behold Of that imagined age of gold;-- Alas, not yet one gleaming trace![1] Never did youth, who loved a face As sketched 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,[2] Till thou hast traced the fabric o'er;-- As yet, we have beheld no more Than just the porch to Freedom's fame; 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, One word at parting,--in the tone Most sweet to you, and most my own, The simple strain I send you here, 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 wandered 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 destined isle.[3] 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.
[1] Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world for Martha's Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio.
[2] Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavorable specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not 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, and every odor that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation.
[3] Bermuda.
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."--Anon.
_"La Poesie a ses monstres comme la nature."_ D'ALEMBERT.
"They made her a grave, too cold and damp "For a soul so warm and true; "And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,[1] "Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp, "She paddles her white canoe.
"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 stirred the brake, And the copper-snake breathed 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 played-- "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 hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore; Far, far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat returned 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!
[1] The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond.
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;[1] Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep, At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep; Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline, Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,[2] Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains; Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by, Turn from the canvas that creative eye, And let its splendor, 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 canvas 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 leaned 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.
Say, have you ne'er, in nightly vision, strayed To those pure isles of ever-blooming shade, Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, placed For happy spirits in the Atlantic waste? There listening, while, from earth, each breeze that came Brought echoes of their own undying fame, In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song, They charmed their lapse of nightless hours along:-- Nor yet in song, that mortal ear might suit, For every spirit was itself a lute, Where Virtue wakened, with elysian breeze, Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies.
Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland Floated our bark to this enchanted land,-- These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown, Like studs of emerald o'er a silver zone,-- Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave To blessed arbors o'er the western wave, Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime, Of bowers ethereal, and the Spirit's clime.
Bright rose the morning, every wave was still, When the first perfume of a cedar hill Sweetly awaked us, and, with smiling charms, The fairy harbor woo'd us to its arms.[3] Gently we stole, before the whispering wind, Through plaintain shades, that round, like awnings, twined And kist 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 enamored keel, with whispering play, Through liquid herbage seemed 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, Brightened 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 played, Lending the scene an ever-changing grace, Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,[4] And dream of temples, till her kindling torch Lighted me back to all the glorious days Of Attic genius; and I seemed to gaze On marble, from the rich Pentelio 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 poet's call, Delicate Ariel! who, in brighter hours, Lived on the perfume of these honied bowers, In velvet buds, at evening, loved 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 dimmed 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, 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.
[1] 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.
[2] The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne.
[3] Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbor 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 be imagined.
[4] This is an illusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. 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 pencil of a Claude might imitate. I had one favorite object of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by 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.
TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ. OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.
FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.
Oh, what a sea of storm we've past!-- High mountain waves and foamy showers, And battling winds whose savage blast But ill agrees with one whose hours Have past in old Anacreon's bowers, Yet think not poesy's bright charm Forsook me in this rude alarm;[1]-- When close they reefed the timid sail, When, every plank complaining loud, We labored in the midnight gale; And even our haughty mainmast bowed, 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 lapt my mind. Nay, when no numbers of my own Responded to her wakening tone, She opened, with her golden key, The casket where my memory lays Those gems of classic poesy, Which time has saved from ancient days. Take one of these, to Lais sung,-- I wrote it while my hammock swung, 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 loved 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 kist 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 even 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 lavished 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 grassy calm the waters sleep, And to the sunbeam proudly show The coral rocks they love to steep.[2] 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 splendor pours That lights up all these leafy shores; While his own heaven, its clouds and beams, So pictured in the waters lie, That each small bark, in passing, seems To float along a burning sky.
Oh for the pinnace lent to thee,[3] 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-- 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. These are the sprites, celestial queen! Thou sendest nightly to the bed Of her I love, with touch unseen Thy planet's brightening 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 wanderer 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.
[1] We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, during 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 sea-boat. She was then commanded by my very regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed aboard the Lily in an action with a French privateer. Poor Compton! he fell a victim to the strange impolicy of allowing such a miserable thing as the Lily to remain in the service: so small, crank, and unmanageable, that a well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her.
[2] The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks are seen beneath to a very great depth; and, as we entered the harbor, 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 having 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.
[3] In Kircher's "Ecstatic Journey to Heaven." Cosmel, the genius of the world, gives Theodidacticus a boat of asbestos, with which he embarks into the regions of the sun.
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 slumbering with the dead tomorrow 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 drained 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.
ODES TO NEA;
WRITTEN AT BERMUDA.
[Greek: NEA turannei] EURPID. "_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 even 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, Unfevered 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 prized when all my own, Now float before me, soft and bright As when they first enamoring shone,-- What hours and days have I seen glide, While fit, 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 I simply, vainly sped, Yet sweetly too--or Love perfumed The flame which thus my life consumed; 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 even this heart should burn with shame, And be thy own more fixt 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 shrine-- Go, lovely girl, that angel look Must thrill a soul more pure than mine. 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.
* * * * *
--_tale iter omne cave. _ PROPERT. _lib. iv. eleg. 8_.
I pray you, let us roam no more Along that wild and lonely shore, Where late we thoughtless strayed; 'Twas not for us, whom heaven intends To be no more than simple friends, Such lonely walks were made.
That little Bay, where turning in From ocean's rude and angry din, As lovers steal to bliss, The billows kiss the shore, and then Flow back into the deep again, As though they did not kiss.
Remember, o'er its circling flood In what a dangerous dream we stood-- The silent sea before us, Around us, all the gloom of grove, That ever lent its shade to love, No eye but heaven's o'er us!
I saw you blush, you felt me tremble, In vain would formal art dissemble All we then looked and thought; 'Twas more than tongue could dare reveal, 'Twas every thing that young hearts feel, By Love and Nature taught.
I stopped to cull, with faltering hand, A shell that, on the golden sand, Before us faintly gleamed; I trembling raised it, and when you Had kist the shell, I kist it too-- How sweet, how wrong it seemed!
Oh, trust me, 'twas a place, an hour, The worst that e'er the tempter's power Could tangle me or you in; Sweet Nea, let us roam no more Along that wild and lonely shore. Such walks may be our ruin.
* * * * *
You read it in these spell-bound 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 seemed 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 hallowed form with hand 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 dared to whisper passion's vow,-- For love had even 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 the assembled eyes Of heaven and earth my madness view, I should have seen, thro' 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 turned the classic page. And traced that happy period over, When blest alike were youth and age, And love inspired the wisest sage, And wisdom graced the tenderest lover.
Before I laid me down to sleep Awhile I from the lattice gazed Upon that still and moonlight deep, With isles like floating gardens raised, 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 breathed the blissful air That late had thrilled 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 strayed 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 played with, wear a smoother whiteness.[1] '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 beloved, And by thy side I fondly roved Through many a temple's reverend gloom, And many a bower's seductive bloom, Where Beauty learned what Wisdom taught. And sages sighed and lovers thought; Where schoolmen conned no maxims stern, But all was formed to soothe or move, To make the dullest love to learn, To make the coldest learn to love.
And now the fairy pathway seemed To lead us through enchanted ground, Where all that bard has ever dreamed Of love or luxury bloomed around. Oh! 'twas a bright, bewildering scene-- Along the alley's deepening green Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers, And scented and illumed the bowers, Seemed, as to him, who darkling roves, Amid the lone Hercynian groves, Appear those countless birds of light, That sparkle in the leaves at night, 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, Through all this heavenward path my guide.
But, lo, as wandering thus we ranged That upward path, the vision changed; And now, methought, we stole along Through halls of more voluptuous glory Than ever lived in Teian song, Or wantoned in Milesian story.[2]
And nymphs were there, whose very eyes Seemed softened o'er with breath of sighs; Whose every ringlet, as it wreathed, A mute appeal to passion breathed.
Some flew, with amber cups, around, Pouring the flowery wines of Crete; And, as they passed with youthful bound, The onyx shone beneath their feet.[3] While others, waving arms of snow Entwined by snakes of burnished gold,[4] 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, Like 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!
* * * * *
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 splendor forget.
Farewell to Bermuda,[5] 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 strayed.
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 couch of gold, And thou the pearl within it placed, I would not let an eye behold The sacred gem my arms embraced.
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 odorous sigh, Nor let its burning mirror drink The soft reflection of thine eye.
That glossy hair, that glowing cheek, So pictured 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 beloved! where'er I turn, Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes: In every star thy glances burn; Thy blush on every floweret lies.
Nor find I in creation aught Of bright or beautiful or rare, Sweet to the sense of pure to thought, But thou art found reflected there.
[1] This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them awhile to be played with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Cardanus.
[2] The Milesiacs, or Milesian fables, had their origin in Miletus, a luxurious town of Ionia. Aristides was the most celebrated author of these licentious fictions.
[3] It appears that in very splendid mansions the floor or pavement was frequently of onyx.
[4] Bracelets of this shape were a favorite ornament among the women of antiquity.
[5] The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. 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.
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.
But fly to his region--lay open thy zone, And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim, To think that a bosom, as white as his own, Should not melt in the daybeam like him. Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet O'er his luminous path will appear-- Fly, my beloved! this island is sweet, But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.
* * * * *
I stole along the flowery bank, While many a bending seagrape[1] drank The sprinkle of the feathery oar That winged 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 steered 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 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? 'Twas 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, New lustre to each beauty lent,-- Itself all trembling as it went!
Dark lay her eyelid's jetty fringe Upon that cheek whose roseate tinge Mixt with its shade, like evening's light Just touching on the verge of night. Her eyes, though thus in slumber hid, Seemed glowing through the ivory lid, And, as I thought, a lustre threw Upon her lip's reflecting dew,-- Such as a night-lamp, left to shine Alone on some secluded shrine, May shed upon the votive wreath, Which pious hands have hung beneath.
Was ever vision half so sweet! Think, think how quick my heart-pulse beat, As o'er the rustling bank I stole;-- Oh! ye, that know the lover's soul, It is for you alone to guess, That moment's trembling happiness.
[1] The seaside or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies.
A STUDY FROM THE ANTIQUE.
Behold, my love, the curious gem Within this simple ring of gold; 'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them Who lived in classic hours of old.
Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps, Upon her hand this gem displayed, Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse Should see it grace a lovelier maid.
Look, dearest, what a sweet design! The more we gaze, it charms the more; Come--closer bring that cheek to mine, And trace with me its beauties o'er.
Thou seest, it is a simple youth By some enamored nymph embraced-- Look, as she leans, and say in sooth Is not that hand most fondly placed?
Upon his curled head behind It seems in careless play to lie, Yet presses gently, half inclined To bring the truant's lip more nigh.
Oh happy maid! Too happy boy! The one so fond and little loath, The other yielding slow to joy-- Oh rare, indeed, but blissful both.
Imagine, love, that I am he, And just as warm as he is chilling; Imagine, too, that thou art she, But quite as coy as she is willing:
So may we try the graceful way In which their gentle arms are twined, And thus, like her, my hand I lay Upon thy wreathed locks behind:
And thus I feel thee breathing sweet, As slow to mine thy head I move; And thus our lips together meet, And thus,--and thus,--I kiss thee, love.
* * * * *
There's not a look, a word of thine, My soul hath e'er forgot; Thou ne'er 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 thy charmed senses dwell, Like songs from Eden 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 see Its faithful pulse decay, Oh let it die, remembering thee, And, like the burnt aroma, be Consumed in sweets away.
TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.
FROM BERMUDA.[1]
"The daylight is gone--but, before we depart, "One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart, "The kindest, the dearest--oh! judge by the tear "I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."
'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree, With a few, who could feel and remember like me, The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.
Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour, When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower, Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew, In blossoms of thought ever springing and new-- Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair, And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there!
Last night, when we came from the Calabash-Tree, When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free, The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day Set the magical springs of my fancy in play, And oh,--such a vision as haunted me then I would slumber for ages to witness again. The many I like, and the few I adore, The friends who were dear and beloved before. But never till now so beloved and dear, At the call of my Fancy, surrounded me here; And soon,--oh, at once, did the light of their smiles To a paradise brighten this region of isles; More lucid the wave, as they looked on it, flowed, And brighter the rose, as they gathered it, glowed. Not the valleys Heraean (though watered by rills Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills.[2] Where the Song of the Shepherd, primeval and wild, Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,) Could boast such a lustre o'er land and o'er wave As the magic of love to this paradise gave.
Oh magic of love! unembellished by you, Hath the garden a blush or the landscape a hue? Or shines there a vista in nature or art, Like that which Love opes thro' the eye to the heart?
Alas, that a vision so happy should fade! That, when morning around me in brilliancy played, The rose and the stream I had thought of at night Should still be before me, unfadingly bright; While the friends, who had seemed to hang over the stream, And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream.
But look, where, all ready, in sailing array, The bark that's to carry these pages away,[3] Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind, And will soon leave these islets of Ariel behind. What billows, what gales is she fated to prove, Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love! Yet pleasant the swell of the billows would be, And the roar of those gales would be music to me. Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew, Not the sunniest tears of the summer-eve dew, Were as sweet as the storm, or as bright as the foam Of the surge, that would hurry your wanderer home.
[1] Pinkerton 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 vicissitudes, the people have been so indolent, 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 those islands.
[2] Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first Inventor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.
[3] A ship, ready to sail for England.
THE STEERMAN'S SONG,
WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE
28TH APRIL.[1]
When freshly blows the northern gale, And under courses snug we fly; Or when light breezes swell the sail, And royals proudly sweep the sky; 'Longside the wheel, unwearied still I stand, and, as my watchful eye Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, I think of her I love, and cry, Port, my boy! port.
When calms delay, or breezes blow Right from the point we wish to steer; When by the wind close-hauled we go. And strive in vain the port to near; I think 'tis thus the fates defer My bliss with one that's far away, And while remembrance springs to her, I watch the sails and sighing say, Thus, my boy! thus.
But see the wind draws kindly aft, All hands are up the yards to square, And now the floating stu'n-sails waft Our stately ship thro' waves and air. Oh! then I think that yet for me Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee-- And in that hope I smiling sing, Steady, boy! so.
[1] I left Bermuda in the Boston about the middle of April, in company with the Cambrian and Leander, aboard the latter of which was the Admiral Sir Andrew Mitchell, who divides his year between Halifax and Bermuda, and is the very soul of society and good-fellowship to both. We separated in a few days, and the Boston after a short cruise proceeded to New York.
TO THE FIRE-FLY.[1]
At morning, when the earth and sky Are glowing with the light of spring, We see thee not, thou humble fly! Nor think upon thy gleaming wing.
But when the skies have lost their hue, And sunny lights no longer play, Oh then we see and bless thee too For sparkling o'er the dreary way.
Thus let me hope, when lost to me The lights that now my life illume, Some milder joys may come, like thee, To cheer, if not to warm, the gloom!
[1] The lively and varying illumination, with which these fire-flies light up the woods at night, gives quite an idea of enchantment.
TO THE LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.
FROM THE CITY OP WASHINGTON.
If former times had never left a trace Of human frailty in their onward race, Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran, One dark memorial of the crimes of man; If every age, in new unconscious prime, Rose, like a phenix, from the fires of time, To wing its way unguided and alone, The future smiling and the past unknown; Then ardent man would to himself be new, Earth at his foot and heaven within his view: Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme Of full perfection prompt his daring dream, Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore, Could tell him, fools had dreamt as much before. But, tracing as we do, through age and clime, The plans of virtue midst the deeds of crime, The thinking follies and the reasoning rage Of man, at once the idiot and the sage; When still we see, through every varying frame Of arts and polity, his course the same, And know that ancient fools but died, to make A space on earth for modern fools to take; 'Tis strange, how quickly we the past forget; That Wisdom's self should not be tutored yet, Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth Of pure perfection midst the sons of earth!
Oh! nothing but that soul which God has given, Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven; O'er dross without to shed the light within, And dream of virtue while we see but sin.
Even here, beside the proud Potowmac's stream, Might sages still pursue the flattering theme Of days to come, when man shall conquer fate, Rise o'er the level of his mortal state, Belie the monuments of frailty past, And plant perfection in this world at last! "Here," might they say, "shall power's divided reign "Evince that patriots have not bled in vain. "Here godlike liberty's herculean youth, "Cradled in peace, and nurtured up by truth "To full maturity of nerve and mind, "Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind. "Here shall religion's pure and balmy draught "In form no more from cups of state be quaft, "But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect, "Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect. "Around the columns of the public shrine "Shall growing arts their gradual wreath intwine, "Nor breathe corruption from the flowering braid, "Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade, "No longer here shall Justice bound her view, "Or wrong the many, while she rights the few; "But take her range through all the social frame, "Pure and pervading as that vital flame "Which warms at once our best and meanest part, "And thrills a hair while it expands a heart!"
Oh golden dream! what soul that loves to scan The bright disk rather than the dark of man, That owns the good, while smarting with the ill, And loves the world with all its frailty still,-- What ardent bosom does not spring to meet The generous hope, with all that heavenly heat, Which makes the soul unwilling to resign The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine! Yes, dearest friend, I see thee glow to think The chain of ages yet may boast a link Of purer texture than the world has known, And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne.
But, is it thus? doth even the glorious dream Borrow from truth that dim, uncertain gleam, Which tempts us still to give such fancies scope, As shock not reason, while they nourish hope? No, no, believe me, 'tis not so--even now, While yet upon Columbia's rising brow The showy smile of young presumption plays, Her bloom is poisoned and her heart decays. Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath Burns with the taint of empires near their death; And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime, She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime,[1]
Already has the child of Gallia's school The foul Philosophy that sins by rule, With all her train of reasoning, damning arts, Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts, Like things that quicken after Nilus' flood, The venomed birth of sunshine and of mud,-- Already has she poured her poison here O'er every charm that makes existence dear; Already blighted, with her blackening trace, The opening bloom of every social grace, And all those courtesies, that love to shoot Round virtue's stem, the flowerets of her fruit.
And, were these errors but the wanton tide Of young luxuriance or unchastened pride; The fervid follies and the faults of such As wrongly feel, because they feel too much; Then might experience make the fever less, Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess. But no; 'tis heartless, speculative ill, All youth's transgression with all age's chill; The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice, A slow and cold stagnation into vice.
Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man's sinking age, Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, And dies, collecting lumber in the rear,-- Long has it palsied every grasping hand And greedy spirit through this bartering land; Turned life to traffic, set the demon gold So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold, And conscience, truth, and honesty are made To rise and fall, like other wares of trade.
Already in this free, this virtuous state, Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordained by fate, To show the world, what high perfection springs From rabble senators, and merchant kings,-- Even here already patriots learn to steal Their private perquisites from public weal, And, guardians of the country's sacred fire, Like Afric's priests, let out the flame for hire. Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose From England's debtors to be England's foes, Who could their monarch in their purse forget, And break allegiance, but to cancel debt, Have proved at length, the mineral's tempting hue, Which makes a patriot, can un-make him too.[2] Oh! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant! Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant Of purpled madmen, were they numbered all From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, As the rank jargon of that factious race, Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words, Formed to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords, Strut forth, as patriots, from their negro-marts, And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts. Who can, with patience, for a moment see The medley mass of pride and misery, Of whips and charters, manacles and rights, Of slaving blacks and democratic whites, And all the piebald polity that reigns In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains? To think that man, thou just and gentle God! Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee, Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty; Away, away--I'd rather hold my neck By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck, In climes, where liberty has scarce been named, Nor any right but that of ruling claimed, Than thus to live, where bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves; Where--motley laws admitting no degree Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free-- Alike the bondage and the license suit The brute made ruler and the man made brute.
But, while I thus, my friend, in flowerless song, So feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong, The ills, the vices of the land, where first Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst, Where treason's arm by royalty was nerved, And Frenchmen learned to crush the throne they served-- Thou, calmly lulled in dreams of classic thought, By bards illumined and by sages taught, Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene, That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been. Why should I wake thee? why severely chase The lovely forms of virtue and of grace, That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread By Spartan matrons round the genial bed, Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart.
Forgive me, Forbes--and should the song destroy One generous hope, one throb of social joy, One high pulsation of the zeal for man, Which few can feel, and bless that few who can,-- Oh! turn to him, beneath those kindred eyes Thy talents open and thy virtues rise, Forget where nature has been dark or dim, And proudly study all her lights in him. Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget, And feel that man _may_ reach perfection yet.
[1] "What will be the old age of this government, if it is thus early decrepit!" Such was the remark of Fauchet, the French minister at Philadelphia, in that famous despatch to his government, which was intercepted by one of our cruisers in the year 1794. This curious memorial may be found in Porcupine's Works, vol. i. p. 279. It remains a striking monument of republican intrigue on one side and republican profligacy on the other; and I would recommend the perusal of it to every honest politician, who may labor under a moment's delusion with respect to the purity of American patriotism.
[2] See Porcupine's account of the Pennsylvania Insurrection in 1794. In short, see Porcupine's works throughout, for ample corroboration of every sentiment which I have ventured to express. In saying this, I refer less to the comments of that writer than to the occurrences which he has related and the documents which he has preserved. Opinion may be suspected of bias, but facts speak for themselves.
TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ., M. D.
FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON.
'Tis evening now; beneath the western star Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar, And fills the ears of some consenting she With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy.
The patriot, fresh from Freedom's councils come, Now pleased retires to lash his slaves at home; Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia's charms, And dream of freedom in his bondsmaid's arms.
In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom, Come, let me lead thee o'er this "second Rome!"[1] Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now:[2]-- This embryo capital, where Fancy sees Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees; Which second-sighted seers, even now, adorn With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn, Though naught but woods[3] and Jefferson they see, Where streets should run and sages _ought_ to be.
And look, how calmly in yon radiant wave, The dying sun prepares his golden grave. Oh mighty river! oh ye banks of shade! Ye matchless scenes, in nature's morning made, While still, in all the exuberance of prime, She poured her wonders, lavishly sublime, Nor yet had learned to stoop, with humbler care, From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair;-- Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods, Your rich savannas and majestic woods, Where bards should meditate and heroes rove, And woman charm, and man deserve her love,-- Oh say, was world so bright, but born to grace Its own half-organized, half-minded race[4] Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast, Like vermin gendered on the lion's crest? Were none but brutes to call that soil their home, Where none but demigods should dare to roam? Or worse, thou wondrous world! oh! doubly worse, Did heaven design thy lordly land to nurse The motley dregs of every distant clime, Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere, In full malignity to rankle here?
But hold,--observe yon little mount of pines, Where the breeze murmurs and the firefly shines. There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, The sculptured image of that veteran chief[5] Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name, And climb'd o'er prostrate royalty to fame; Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train Cast off their monarch that their mob might reign.
How shall we rank thee upon glory's page? Thou more than soldier and just less than sage! Of peace too fond to act the conqueror's part, Too long in camps to learn a statesman's art, Nature designed thee for a hero's mould, But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold.
While loftier souls command, nay, make their fate, Thy fate made thee and forced thee to be great. Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds Her brightest halo round the weakest heads, Found _thee_ undazzled, tranquil as before, Proud to be useful, scorning to be more; Less moved by glory's than by duty's claim, Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim; All that thou _wert_ reflects less fame on thee, Far less, than all thou didst _forbear to be_. Nor yet the patriot of one land alone,-- For, thine's a name all nations claim their own; And every shore, where breathed the good and brave, Echoed the plaudits thy own country gave.
Now look, my friend, where faint the moonlight falls On yonder dome, and, in those princely halls,-- If thou canst hate, as sure that soul must hate, Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great, If thou canst loathe and execrate with me The poisoning drug of French philosophy, That nauseous slaver of these frantic times, With which false liberty dilutes her crimes, If thou has got, within thy free-born breast, One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest, With honest scorn for that inglorious soul, Which creeps and whines beneath a mob's control, Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod, And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god, There, in those walls--but, burning tongue forbear! Rank must be reverenced, even the rank that's there: So here I pause--and now, dear Hume, we part: But oft again, in frank exchange of heart, Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear By Thames at home, or by Potowmac here. O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs, 'Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs, Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes With me shall wonder, and with me despise. While I, as oft, in fancy's dream shall rove, With thee conversing, through that land I love, Where, like the air that fans her fields of green, Her freedom spreads, unfevered and serene; And sovereign man can condescend to see The throne and laws more sovereign still than he.
[1] "On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of the Federal City [says Mr. Weld] the identical spot on which the capitol now stands was called Rome. This anecdote is related by many as a certain prognostic of the future magnificence of this city, which is to be, as it were, a second Rome."--_Weld's Travels_, letter iv.
[2] A little stream runs through the city, which, with intolerable affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose- Creek.
[3] "To be under the necessity of going through a deep wood for one or two miles, perhaps, in order to see a next-door neighbor, and in the same city, is a curious and I believe, a novel circumstance."--_Weld_, letter iv.
The Federal City (if it, must be called a city), has hot been much increased since Mr. Weld visited it.
[4] The picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American Indian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more correct than the flattering representations which Mr. Jefferson has given us. See the Notes on Virginia, where this gentleman endeavors to disprove in general the opinion maintained so strongly by some philosophers that nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it) _belittles_ her productions in the western world.
[5] On a small hill near the capital there is to be an equestrian statue of General Washington.
LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA.
Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; But far, very far were the friends that he loved, And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh.
Oh Nature, though blessed and bright are thy rays, O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown, Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays In a smile from the heart that is fondly our own.
Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain Unblest by the smile he had languished to meet; Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, Till the threshold of home had been pressed by his feet.
But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear, And they loved what they knew of so humble a name; And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear, That they found in his heart something better than fame.
Nor did woman--oh woman! Whose form and whose soul Are the spell and the life of each path we pursue; Whether sunned in the tropics or chilled at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness too:--
Nor did she her enamoring magic deny,-- That magic his heart had relinquished so long,-- Like eyes he had loved was _her_ eloquent eye, Like them did it soften and weep at his song.
Oh, blest be the tear, and in memory oft May its sparkle be shed o'er the wanderer's dream; Thrice blest be that eye, and may passion as soft, As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam!
The stranger is gone--but he will not forget, When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known, To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met, As he strayed by the wave of the Schuylkill alone.
LINES WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALLS OF THE MOHAWK KIVER.[1]
_Gia era in loco ove s'udia l'rimbombo Dell' acqua_. DANTE.
From rise of morn till set of sun I've seen the mighty Mohawk run; And as I markt 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 viewed the hurrying pace With which he ran his turbid race, Rushing, alike untried and wild, Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled, Flying by every green recess That wooed him to its calm caress, Yet, sometimes turning with the wind, As if to leave one look behind,-- Oft have I thought, and thinking sighed, 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 wastes of woe And flowers of joy my path may go; How many a sheltered, calm retreat May woo the while 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 destined falls, I feel the world's bewildering force Hurry my heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the spent current cease to run.
One only prayer I dare to make, As onward thus my course I take;-- Oh, be my falls as bright as thine! May heaven's relenting rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft as now it hangs o'er thee!
[1] There is a dreary and savage character in the country immediately about these Falls, which is much more in harmony with the wildness of such a scene than the cultivated lands in the neighborhood of Niagara.
SONG OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS.[1]
_qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla_ OVID _Metam. lib_ iii. v. 227.
Now the vapor, 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-- Think, '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[3] loves to creep, Torpid, to his wintry sleep: Where the bird of carrion flits, And the shuddering murderer sits,[4] Lone beneath a roof of blood; While upon his poisoned food, From the corpse of him he slew Drops the chill and gory dew.
Hither bend ye, turn ye 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 maddening error Through the maze of night and terror, Till the morn behold him lying On 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 famished 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![5]
Then, when night's long labor past, Wildered, 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 mosquitoes hover, In his ears and eyeballs tingling, With his blood their poison mingling, Till, beneath the solar fires, Rankling all, the wretch expires!
[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 Susquehannah 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 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."
[5] "We find also collars of porcelain, tobacco, ears of maize, skins, etc., by the side of difficult and dangerous ways, on rocks, or by the side of the falls; and these are so many offerings made to the spirits which preside in these places."--See _Charlevoix's Letter on the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada_.
Father Hennepin too mentions this ceremony; he also says, "We took notice of one barbarian, who made a kind of sacrifice upon an oak at the Cascade of St. Anthony of Padua upon the river Mississippi."--See _Hennepin's Voyage into North America_.
TO THE HONORABLE W. R. SPENCER.
FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIE.
_nec venit ad duros musa vocata Getas_. OVID. _ex Ponto, lib. 1. ep. 5_.
Thou oft hast told me of the happy hours Enjoyed by thee in fair Italia's bowers, Where, lingering yet, the ghost of ancient wit Midst modern monks profanely dares to flit. And pagan spirits, by the Pope unlaid, Haunt every stream and sing through every shade. There still the bard who (if his numbers be His tongue's light echo) must have talked like thee,-- The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught Those playful, sunshine holidays of thought, In which the spirit baskingly reclines, Bright without effort, resting while it shines,-- There still he roves, and laughing loves to see How modern priests with ancient rakes agree: How, 'neath the cowl, the festal garland shines, And Love still finds a niche in Christian shrines.
There still, too, roam those other souls of song, With whom thy spirit hath communed so long, That, quick as light, their rarest gems of thought, By Memory's magic to thy lip are brought. But here, alas! by Erie's stormy lake, As, far from such bright haunts my course I take, No proud remembrance o'er the fancy plays, No classic dream, no star of other days Hath left that visionary light behind, That lingering radiance of immortal mind, Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene, The humblest shed, where Genius once has been!
All that creation's varying mass assumes Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms; Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow, Bright lakes expand, and conquering[1] rivers flow; But mind, immortal mind, without whose ray, This 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 slaved or free, To man the civilized, less tame than he,-- 'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife Betwixt half-polished and half-barbarous life; Where every ill the ancient world could brew Is mixt with every grossness of the new; Where all corrupts, though little can entice, And naught is known of luxury but its vice!
Is this the region then, is this the clime For soaring fancies? for those dreams sublime, Which all their miracles of light reveal To heads that meditate and hearts that feel? Alas! not so--the Muse of Nature lights Her glories round; she scales the mountain heights, And roams the forests; every wondrous 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,[2] Without one breath of soul, divinely strong, One ray of mind to thaw them into song.
Yet, yet forgive me, oh ye sacred few, Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew; Whom, known and loved through many a social eve, 'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave.[3] Not with more joy the lonely exile scanned The writing traced upon the desert's sand, Where his lone heart but little hoped to find One trace of life, one stamp of human kind, Than did I hail the pure, the enlightened zeal, The strength to reason and the warmth to feel, The manly polish and the illumined taste, Which,--mid the melancholy, heartless waste My foot has traversed,--oh you sacred few! I found by Delaware's green banks with you.
Long may you loathe the Gallic dross that runs Through your fair country and corrupts its sons; Long love the arts, the glories which adorn Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born. Oh! if America can yet be great, If neither chained by choice, nor doomed by fate To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now, She yet can raise the crowned, yet civic brow Of single majesty,--can add the grace Of Rank's rich capital to Freedom's base, Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove For the fair ornament that flowers above;-- If yet released from all that pedant throng, So vain of error and so pledged to wrong, Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide Weakness in vaunt and barrenness in pride, She yet can rise, can wreathe 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 favoring heaven Has made like yours, the glorious task is given:-- Oh! but for _such_, Columbia's days were done; Rank without ripeness, quickened without sun, Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er.
Believe me, Spencer, while I winged the hours Where Schuylkill winds his way through banks of flowers, Though few the days, the happy evenings few; So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, That my charmed soul forgot its wish to roam, And rested there, as in a dream of home. And looks I met, like looks I'd loved 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. Yes,--we had nights of that communion free, That flow of heart, which I have known with thee So oft, so warmly; nights of mirth and mind,
Of whims that taught, and follies that refined. When shall we both renew them? when, restored To the gay 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 home,--alas! these weary feet Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet.
[1] This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking description of the confluence of the Missouri with the Mississippi.
[2] Alluding to the fanciful notion of "words congealed in northern air."
[3] In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at Philadelphia, I passed the few agreeable moments which my tour through the States afforded me. Mr. Dennie has succeeded in diffusing through this cultivated little circle that love for good literature and sound politics which he feels so zealously himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic of his countrymen. They will not, I trust, accuse me of illiberality for the picture which I have given of the ignorance 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 in learning from them what Americans _can be_, I but see with the more indignation what Americans _are_.
BALLAD STANZAS.
I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near. And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world, "A heart that was humble might hope for it here!" It was noon, and on flowers that languished around In silence reposed the voluptuous bee; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.
And, "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed, "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, "Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!
"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips "In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, "And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, "Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!"
A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.
WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.[1]
_et remigem cantus hortatur_. QUINTILIAN.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.[2] Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl, But, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
[1] I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sung to us frequently. The wind was so unfavorable that they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all such difficulties.
[2] "At the Rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the whole, of their lading. It is from this spot Canadians consider they take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which is dedicated to the tutelar saint of voyagers."--_Mackenzie, General History of the Fur Trade_.
TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.
FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.
Not many months have now been dreamed away Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded shores, Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours, And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze, Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries;-- Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves, Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves, And hears the spirit-voice of sire, or chief, Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf. There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung My own unpolished lays, how proud I've hung On every tuneful accent! proud to feel. That notes like mine should have the fate to steal, As o'er thy hallowing lip they sighed along. Such breath of passion and such soul of song. Yes,--I have wondered, like some peasant boy Who sings, on Sabbath-eve, his strains of joy, And when he hears the wild, untutored note Back to his ear on softening echoes float, Believes it still some answering spirit's tone, And thinks it all too sweet to be his own!
I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year Had filled its circle, I should wander here In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world, See all its store of inland waters hurled In one vast volume down Niagara's steep, Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep, Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed; Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide Down the white rapids of his lordly tide Through massy woods, mid islets flowering fair, And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair For consolation might have weeping trod, When banished from the garden of their God, Oh, Lady! these are miracles, which man, Caged in the bounds of Europe's pigmy span, Can scarcely dream of,--which his eye must see To know how wonderful this world can be!
But lo,--the last tints of the west decline, And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine. Among the reeds, in which our idle boat Is rocked to rest, the wind's complaining note Dies like a half-breathed whispering of flutes; Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots, And I can trace him, like a watery star,[1] Down the steep current, till he fades afar Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light. Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night. Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray, And the smooth glass-snake,[2] glid-o'er my way, Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form, Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm, Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze Some Indian Spirit warble words like these:--
From the land beyond the sea, Whither happy spirits flee; Where, transformed to sacred doves,[3] Many a blessed Indian roves Through the air on wing, as white As those wondrous stones of light,[4] Which the eye of morning counts On the Apalachian mounts,-- Hither oft my flight I take Over Huron's lucid lake, Where the wave, as clear as dew, Sleeps beneath the light canoe, Which, reflected, floating there, Looks as if it hung in air.
Then, when I have strayed a while Through the Manataulin isle,[5] Breathing all its holy bloom, Swift I mount me on the plume Of my Wakon-Bird,[6] and fly Where, beneath a burning sky, O'er the bed of Erie's lake Slumbers many a water-snake, Wrapt within the web of leaves, Which the water-lily weaves.[7] Next I chase the floweret-king Through his rosy realm of spring; See him now, while diamond hues Soft his neck and wings suffuse, In the leafy chalice sink, Thirsting for his balmy drink; Now behold him all on fire, Lovely in his looks of ire, Breaking every infant stem, Scattering every velvet gem, Where his little tyrant lip Had not found enough to sip.
Then my playful hand I steep Where the gold-thread loves to creep, Cull from thence a tangled wreath, Words of magic round it breathe, And the sunny chaplet spread O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head, Till, with dreams of honey blest, Haunted, in his downy nest, By the garden's fairest spells, Dewy buds and fragrant bells, Fancy all his soul embowers In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers.
Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes Melt along the ruffled lakes, When the gray moose sheds his horns, When the track, at evening, warns Weary hunters of the way To the wigwam's cheering ray, Then, aloft through freezing air, With the snow-bird soft and fair As the fleece that heaven flings O'er his little pearly wings, Light above the rocks I play, Where Niagara's starry spray, Frozen on the cliff, appears Like a giant's starting tears. There, amid the island-sedge, Just upon the cataract's edge, Where the foot of living man Never trod since time began, Lone I sit, at close of day, While, beneath the golden ray, Icy columns gleam below, Feathered round with falling snow, And an arch of glory springs, Sparkling as the chain of rings Round the neck of virgins hung,-- Virgins, who have wandered young O'er the waters of the west To the land where spirits rest!
Thus have I charmed, with visionary lay, The lonely moments of the night away; And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams! Once more, embarked upon the glittering streams, Our boat flies light along the leafy shore, Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark, Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood, While on its deck a pilot angel stood, And, with his wings of living light unfurled, Coasted the dim shores of another world!
Yet, oh! believe me, mid this mingled maze Of Nature's beauties, where the fancy strays From charm to charm, where every floweret's hue Hath something strange, and every leaf is new,-- I never feel a joy so pure and still So inly felt, as when some brook or hill, Or veteran oak, like those remembered well, Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell, (For, who can say by what small fairy ties The memory clings to pleasure as it flies?) Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream I once indulged by Trent's inspiring stream; Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights.
Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore, With him, the polished warrior, by thy side, A sister's idol and a nation's pride! When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye Turn to the living hero, while it read, For pure and brightening comments on the dead;-- Or whether memory to my mind recalls The festal grandeur of those lordly halls, When guests have met around the sparkling board, And welcome warmed the cup that luxury poured; When the bright future Star of England's throne, With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone, Winning respect, nor claiming what he won, But tempering greatness, like an evening sun Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire, Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire;-- Whatever hue my recollections take, Even the regret, the very pain they wake Is mixt with happiness;--but, ah! no more-- Lady! adieu--my heart has lingered o'er Those vanished times, till all that round me lies, Stream, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes!
[1] Anburey, in his Travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which porpoises diffuse at night through the river St. Lawrence,--Vol. i. p. 29.
[2] The glass-snake is brittle and transparent.
[3] "The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according to some, it is transformed into a dove."--_Charlevoix upon the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada_.
[4] "The mountains appeared to be sprinkled with white stones, which glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians manetoe aseniah, or spirit-stones."--_Mackenzie's Journal_.
[5] Manataulin signifies a Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the Indians.
[6] "The Wakon-Bird, which probably is of the same species with the bird of Paradise, receives its name from the ideas the Indians have of its superior excellence; the Wakon-Bird being, in their language, the Bird of the Great Spirit."--_Morse_.
[7] The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a considerable distance by the large pond-lily, whose leaves spread thickly over the surface of the lake, and form a kind of bed for the water-snakes in summer.
IMPROMPTU.
AFTER A VISIT TO MRS. ----, OF MONTREAL.
'Twas but for a moment--and yet in that time She crowded the impressions of many an hour: Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime, Which waked every feeling at once into flower.
Oh! could we have borrowed from Time but a day, To renew such impressions again and again, The things we should look and imagine and say Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then.
What we had not the leisure or language to speak, We should find some more spiritual mode of revealing, And, between us, should feel just as much in a week As others would take a millennium in feeling.
WRITTEN
ON PASSING DEADMAN'S ISLAND, IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE,[1] LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPTEMBER, 1804.
See you, beneath yon cloud so dark, Fast gliding along a gloomy bark? Her sails are full,--though the wind is still, And there blows not a breath her sails to fill!
Say, what doth that vessel of darkness bear? The silent calm of the grave is there, Save now and again a death-knell rung, And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung.
There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore Of cold and pitiless Labrador; Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost, Full many a mariner's bones are tost.
Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck, And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck, Doth play on as pale and livid a crew, As ever yet drank the churchyard dew.
To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast, To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast; By skeleton shapes her sails are furled, And the hand that steers is not of this world!
Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on, Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone, Nor let morning look on so foul a sight As would blanch for ever her rosy light!
[1] This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a superstition very common among sailors, who called this ghost-ship, I think, "The Flying Dutchman."
TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE, ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND,[1]
OCTOBER, 1804.
With triumph, this morning, oh Boston! I hail The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail, For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee, To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free, And that chill Nova-Scotia's unpromising strand Is the last I shall tread of American land. Well--peace to the land! may her sons know, at length, That in high-minded honor lies liberty's strength, That though man be as free as the fetterless wind, As the wantonest air that the north can unbind, Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the blast, If no harvest of mind ever sprung where it past, Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its might,-- Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight!
Farewell to the few I have left with regret: May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget; The delight of those evenings,--too brief a delight! When in converse and song we have stolen on the night; When they've asked me the manners, the mind, or the mien, Of some bard I had known or some chief I had seen, Whose glory, though distant, they long had adored, Whose name had oft hallowed the wine-cup they poured; And still as, with sympathy humble but true, I have told of each bright son of fame all I knew, They have listened, and sighed that the powerful stream Of America's empire should pass like a dream, Without leaving one relic of genius, to say, How sublime was the tide which had vanished away! Farewell to the few--though we never may meet On this planet again, it is soothing and sweet To think that, whenever my song or my name Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and blest, Ere hope had deceived me or sorrow deprest.
But, Douglas! while thus I recall to my mind The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind, I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye As it follows the rack flitting over the sky, That the faint coming breeze would be fair for our flight, And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night. Dear Douglas! thou knowest, with thee by my side, With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to guide, There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas, Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to freeze, Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore, That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore! Oh think then how gladly I follow thee now, When Hope smooths the billowy path of our prow, And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind Takes me nearer the home where my heart is inshrined; Where the smile of a father shall meet me again, And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain; Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart, And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part?--
But see!--the bent top sails are ready to swell-- To the boat--I am with thee--Columbia, farewell!
[1] Commanded by Captain J. E. Douglas, with whom I returned to England, and to whom I am indebted for many, many kindnesses.
IRISH MELODIES
DEDICATION
TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL.
It is now many years since, in, a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of that work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character reflected honor on the country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every succeeding year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under your protection, and am,
With perfect Sincerity, Your Ladyship's ever attached friend,
THOMAS MOORE.
PREFACE.
Though an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon me to keep them quietly and indissolubly together. But, besides the various shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been published throughout America, they are included, of course, in all the editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily acceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for a revised and complete edition of the poetry of the Work, though well aware that my verses must lose even more than the "_animae dimidium_" in being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune to be associated.
IRISH MELODIES
GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.
Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee, Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh! then remember me!
When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, Oh! then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning, Oh! thus remember me. Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses, Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, Oh! then, remember me.
When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, Oh! still remember me. Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee,-- Oh! then remember me.
WAR SONG.
REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.[1]
Remember the glories of Brien the brave, Tho' the days of the hero are o'er; Tho' lost to Mononia and cold in the grave,[2] He returns to Kinkora no more.[3] That star of the field, which so often hath poured Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword, To light us to victory yet.
Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there? No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains.
Forget not our wounded companions, who stood[4] In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirred not, but conquered and died. That sun which now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain;-- Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, To find that they fell there in vain.
[1] Brien Boromhe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements.
[2] Munster.
[3] The palace of Brien.
[4] This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest,--"_Let stakes_[they said] _be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us to be tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man_." "Between seven and eight hundred men (adds O'Halloran) pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops;--never was such another sight exhibited."--_"History of Ireland_,"