But this was all a dream of sleep,

And I have said, when morning slonc, « Oh! why should fairy 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 forin, like thinc on earth!

And yet, in all that flowery maze

Through which my life has loved to troad, When I have heard the sweetest lays

From lips of dearest lustre shed;

Oh! I have thought, and thinking sigli'de
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 shades of woe
And flowers of joy my path may go!
How many an humble, still retreat
May rise to court 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 see the world's bewildering force
Hurry my heart's devoted course
From lapse to lapse, till life be done,
And the lost current cease to run !
Oh! may my falls be bright as thine!
May leaven's forgiving rainbow shine
Upon the mist that circles me,
As soft as now it hangs o'er thee!

When I have felt the warbled word

From Beauty's mouth of perfume sighing, Sweet as music's hallow'd bird

Upon a rose's bosom lying!

Though form and song at once combined

Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill, My heart hath sigh'il, my heart hath pined

For something softer, lovelier still!

Oh! I have found it all, at last,

In thee, thou sweetest living lyre, Through which the soul bath ever pass't - Its harmonizing breath of fire!

CLORIS AND FANNY. Cloris ! if I were Persia's king,

I'd make my graceful queen of thec; While Fanny, wild and artless thing,

Should but thy humble handmaid be.

All that my best and wildest dream,

In Fancy's hour, could hear or see Of Music's sigh or Beauty's beam,

Are realized, at once, in thee!

There is but one objection in il

That, verily, I'm much afraid I should, in some unlucky minute,

Forsake the mistress for the maid!




TO MISS With woman's form and woman's tricks So much of man you seem to mix,

One knows not where to take you : 1 pray you, if 't is not too far, Go, ask of Nature which you are,

Or what she meant to make you.

Gin eru in loco ove s'udia I rimbombo Dell' acqua..........


Yet stay-you need not take the pains,
With neither beauty, youth, nor brains,

For man or maid's desiring;
Pert as female, fool as male,
As boy too green, as girl too stalc-

The thing 's not worth inquiring'

FROM rise of morn till set of sun
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run,
And as I mark'd the woods of pine
Along his mirror darkly shine,
Like tall and gloomy forms that pass
Before the wizard's midnight glass;
And as I view'd the hurrying pace
With which he ran his turbid race,
Rushing, alike untired and wild,
Through shades that frown'd and flowers that smiled,
Flying by every green recess
That wood him to its calm caress,
Yet, sometimes turning with the wind,
As if to leave one look behind!



Sine Venere friget Apollo.


How can I sing of fragrant sighs

I ne'er have felt from thee? How can I sing of smiling eyes

That ne'er have smiled on me?

'There is a dreary and savage character in the country immediately above these falls, which is much more in harmony with the wildness of such a scene, than the cultivated laods in the neighbourhood of Niagara. See the drawing of them in Nr Wild's book. According to him, the perpendicular height of the Cobos Fall is fifty feet; but the Marquis de Chastellux makes it seventy-six.

The fine rainbow, which is continually forming and dissolving as the spray rises into the light of the sun, is perhaps the most interesting beauty which these wonderful calaracts exhibit.

The heart, 't is true, may fancy much,

But, oh! 'tis cold and seemingOne moment's real, rapturous touch

Is worth an age of dreaming!

cager sight

Think'st thou, when Julia's lip and breast

From the corpse of him he slew, Inspired my youthful tongue,

Drops the chill and


dew! I coldly spoke of lips unprest, Nor felt the Heaven I sung?

Hither bend you, turn you hither

Eyes that blast and wings that wither! No, no, the spell that warm'd so long

Cross the wandering Christian's way, Was still my Julia's kiss,

Lead him, ere the glimpse of day, And still the girl was paid in song

Many a mile of maddening error What she had given in bliss !

Through the maze of night and terror,

Till the morn behold him lying Then beam one burning smile on me,

O'er the dainp carth, pale and dying! And I will sing those eyes;

Mock him, when his Let me but feel a breath from thee,

Seeks the cordial cottage-light; And I will praise thy sighs.

Gleam then like the lightning-bug,

Tempt him to the den that's dug That rosy mouth alone can bring

For the foul and famish'd brood What makes the bard divine

of the she-wolf, gaunt for blood! Oh, Lady! how my lip would sing,

Or, unto the dangerous pass
If once 't were prest to thine!

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!

Then, when night's long labour past
Qua via difficilis, quaque est via nalla........

Wilder'd, faint he falls at last,
Ovid. Metam. lib. iii, v. 237.

Sinkim, where the causeway's edge

Moulders in the slimy sedye, Now the vapour, hot and damp,

There let every noxious thing Shed by day's expiring lamp,

Trail its filth and fix its sting; Through the misty ether spreads

Let the bull-toad taint him over, Every ill the white man dreads:

Round him let musquitocs hover, Fiery fever's thirsty thrill,

In his ears and eye-balls tingling, Fitful ague's shivering chill!

With his blood their poison mingling, Hark! I hear the traveller's song,

Till, beneath the solar fires,
As he winds the woods along,

Rankling all, the wretch expires!
Christian! 't is the song of fear;
Wolves are round thee, night is near,
And the wild, thou darest to roam-

Oh!'t was once the Indian's home. ?

Hither, sprites, who love to harm,

your charm,

Tell me the witching tale again, By the creeks, or by the brakes,

For never has my heart or car Where the pale witch feeds her snakes,

Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,
And the cayman 3 loves to creep,

So pure to feel, so sweet to hear!
Torpid, to his wintry sleep:
Where the bird of carrion flits,

Say, Love! in all thy spring of fame,
And the shuddering murderer șits 4

When the high Heaven itself was thine; Lone beneath a roof of blood,

When piety confess'd the flame, While upon his poison'd food,

And even thy errors were divine ! The idea of this poem occurred to me in passing through the very dreary wilderness between Batavia, a new settlement in the midst

Did ever Muse's hand so fair of the woods, and the little village of Buffalo upon Lake Erie. This

A glory round thy temple spread ? is the most fatiguing part of the route, in truvelling through tho Did ever lip's ambrosial air Genesee country to Niagara. : . The Five Confederated Nations (of lodians) were settled along

Such perfume o'er thy altars shed? the banks of the Sasquebaobab and the adjacent country, until the One maid there was, who round her lyre year 1979, when General Sullivan, with an array of 4,000 men, drove them from their country to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on

The mystic myrtle wildly wreathed-salteu provisions, to which they were unaccustomed, great numbers

But all her sighs were sighs of fire, of them died. Two hundred of them, it is said, were buried in one

The myrtle wither'd as she breathed! grave, where they had encamped,,--Morse's American Geography.

The alligator, who is supposed to lie in a torpid state all tho 1. Wo find also collars of porcelain, tobacco, ears of maize, skins winter in the bank of some creek or pond, having previously swal- etc., by tbe side of disticult and dangerous ways, on racks, or by the lowed a large pumber of pine knols, which are bis only sustenance, side of the falls ; and these aru so many offerings made to the spirits during the time.

wbich preside in these places.--- See CHARLEVOIX's Let er on the l'ra* This was tbe mode of punishment for marder (as Father Charus- ditions and the Religion of the Savuges of Canada. voix tells us) among the laroos. • They laid the dead body upon Father HendePiX, 10, mentions ibis ceremony; he also says, “We poles at the top of a cabin, and the murderer was obliged to remain took notice of one barbarian, wbo made a kind of sacritice upon an several days together, and to receive all that dropped from the car- oak at the Cascade of St Antony of Padua, upon the river Missis cass, not only on himself but on his food. )

sipl.-Seo lesnePN's Voyage into North America.

you work

many a soul

Oh! you that Love's celestial dream

Dear shall be the day we met,
In all its purity would know,

And dear shall be the night we parted'
Let not the senses' ardent beam
Too strongly through the vision glow!

Oh! if regrets, however sweet,

Muse with the lapse of time decay,
Love sweetest lies conceal'd in night,

Yet still, when thus in mirth you meet,
The night where Heaven has bid him lie;

Fill high to him that's far away!
Oh! shed not there unhallow'd light,
Or, Psyche knows the boy will tly!:

Long be the flame of memory found

Alive within your social glass ;
Dear Psyche! many a charmed hour,

Let that be still the magic round
Through many a wild and magic waste,

O'er which oblivion dares not pass !
To the fair fount and blissful bower?
Thy mazy foot my soul hath traced !

Where'er thy joys are number'd now,
Beneath whatever shades of rest,

The Genius of the starry brow3
Has chain'd thec to thy Cupid's breast;

Nec venit ad duros musa vocata Getas.

Ovid. ex Pontu, lib. i, op. 5. Whether above the horizon dim, Along whose verge our spirits stray

FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIE. (Half sunk within the shadowy brim, Half brighten'd by the eternal ray),4

Taou oft hast told me of the fairy hours

Thy heart has number'd, in those classic bowers
Thou risest to a cloudless pole!

Where fancy sees the ghost of ancient wit
Or, lingering bere, dost love to mark

'Mid cowls and cardinals profanely flit, The twilight walk of

And pagan spirits, by the Pope unlaid,
Through sunny good and evil dark;

Haunt every stream and sing through every


There still the bard, who (if luis numbers be Suill be the song to Psyche dear,

Ilis tongue's light echo) must have talk'd like thee, The song, whose dulcet tide was given

The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught To keep her name as fadeless here

Thosc playful, sunshine holidays of thought,
As nectar keeps her soul in Ileaven!

In which the basking soul reclines and glows,
Warm without toil and brilliant in repose.

There still he roves, and laughing loves to see

Ilow modern monks with ancient rakes agree;

How mitres hang where ivy wreaths might twine,

And heathen Massic 's damn'd for stronger wine!

There too are all those wandering souls of song
O dulces comitum valete cotas !

With whom thy spirit hath communed so long,

Whose rarest gems are every instant hung

By memory's magic on thy sparkling tongue.
No, never shall my soul forget

But here, alas! by Eric's stormy lake,
The friends I found so cordial-hearted;

As far from thee my lonely course I tuke,

No bright remembrance o'er the fancy plays, * See the story in Apuleits. With respect to this beautiful allegory No classic dream, no star of other days of Love and Psyche, there is an ingenious idea suggested by the seDator Buonarotu, in his Osservazioni sopra alcuni frammenti di Has left that visionary glory here, rasi antichi. lle ibioks the falle is taken from some very occult That relic of its light, so soft, so dear, mysteries, which had long been celebrated in honour of Love; and

Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene, be accounts, upon this supposition, for the silence of the more anciest autbors upon the subject, as it was not till towards the decline

The humblest shed, where genius once has been!
of Pagan superstition that writers could venture to reveal or discuss
such ceremonios; acrordingly, he observes, we find Luciao and All that creation's varying mass assumes
Plutarcà trcating, without reserve, of the Dea Syria, and Isis and of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms;
Osiris ; and APCLEICS, who has given as the story of Cupid and

Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow,
Psyche, has also detailed some of the mysteries of Isis.--See the
Giornale di Linterati d'Italia, come rxvii, articol. 1. See also the Bright lakes expand, and conquering' rivers flow;
Observations upon the uncient gems in the Museum Florentinum, vol. I, Mind, mind alone, without whose quickening ray,

The world 's a wilderness, and man but clay, I cannot avoid remarking bere an error into which the Freach Eocyclopédistes have been led by M. Spon, in their artiele Psyché.They say, « Pelron fait un récit de la pompe nuptiale de ces deur * This epithet was suggested by CharlevorI's striking description amans (Amour et Psyché). Déjà, dit-il,, etc. etc. The Psyche of of the confluence of tho Missouri with the Mississippi :- I believe Pernonits, however, is a servadi-maid, and the marriage which be this is the finest confluence in the world. The two rivers are much describes is that of the young Paonychis. Sue Spox's Recherches of the same breadth, each about balf a league ; but the Missouri is Curienses, etc. dissertat. 5.

by far the most rapid, and seems to enter the Mississippi like a con1 Allusions to Mrs T-Gne's poem.

queror, through which it carries its white waves to the opposite sbore Constancy.

without mixing them : afterwards it gives its colour to the Missis* By this image the Platonists expressed the middle state of the sippi, which it never loses again, but carries quite down to ibu ser. soul between seasible and intellecwal existence.

-Letter xxvi.

p. 156.

Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose,
Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows!
Take Christians, Mohawks, Democrats, and all
From the rude wig-wam to the congress-hall,
From man the savage, whether slavcd or free,
To man the civilized, less tame than he !
'T is one dull chaos, one unfertile strife
Betwixt half-polishi'd and half-barbarous life;
Where every ill the ancient world can brew
Is mix'd with every grossness of the new;
Where all corrupts, though little can entice,
And nothing 's known of luxury, but vice!

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 favouring Heaven
Has made like yours, the glorious task is given -
Ob! but for such Columbia's days were done;
Rank without ripeness, quicken'd without sun,
Crude at the surface, rotten at the core,
ller fruits would fall, before her spring were o'cr !

Is this the region, then, is this the clime
For golden fancy! for those dreams sublime,
Which all their miracles of light reveal
To heads that meditate and hearts that feel?
No, no—the Muse of inspiration plays
O'er every scene; she walks the forest-maze,
And climbs the mountain; every blooming 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,
Without onc breath of soul, divinely strong,
One ray of heart to thaw them into song!

Believe me, Spencer, while I wing'd the hours
Where Schuylkill undulates through banks of flowers,
Though few the days, the happy evenings few,
So warm with heari, so rich with mind they flew,
That my full soul forgot its wish to roam,
And rested there, as in a dream of home!
And looks I met, like looks I 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!
Oh! we had nights of that communion free,
That flush of heart, which I have known with the
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 pure feast, and intellectual board,
Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine
Those whims that teach, those follies that refine?
Even now, as, wandering upon Eric's shore,
I bear Niagara's distant cataract roar,
I sigh for England-oh! these weary feet
Have many a mile to journey ere we meet !

Ω πατρις, ως σου καρτα νυν μνείαν έχω.




Yet, yet forgive me, oh you sacred few!
Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew;
Whom, known and loved through many a social evc,
’T was bliss to live with, and 't was pain to leave!'
Less dearly welcome were the lines of yore
The exile saw upon the sandy shore,
When his lone heart but faintly hoped to find
One print of man, one blessed stamp of mind!
Less dearly welcome than the liberal 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 wandered, oh sacred few!
I found by Delaware's green banks with you.
Long may you hate the Gallic dross that runs
O'er 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 chain’d by choice, nor damn'd by fate
To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now,
Shc yet can raise the bright but temperate brow
Of single majesty, can grandly place
An empire's pillar upon Freedom's base,
Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove
For the fair capital that flowers above!
If yet, released from all that vulgar throng,
So vain of dullness and so pleased with wrong,
Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide
Folly in froth, and barrenness in pride,

On! fair as Heaven and chaste as light!
Did Nature mould thee all so bright,
That thou shouldst ever learn to wecp
O'er languid Virtue's fatal sleep,
O'er shame extinguish'a, honour fled,
Peace lost, heart wither’d, feeling dead ?

No, no! a star was born with thee, Which sheds cternal purity! Thou hast within those sainted eyes So fair a transcript of the skies, In lines of fire such heavenly lore, That man should read them and adore! Yet have I known a gentle maid Whose early charms were just array'd In Nature's loveliness like thine, And wore that clear, celestial sign, Which seems to mark the brow that's fair For Destiny's peculiar care! Whose bosom too was once a zone Where the bright gem of Virtue shonc; Whose eyes were talismans of fire Against the spell of man's desire! Yet, hapless girl, in one sad hour Her charms have shed their radiant flower ;

'In the society of Mr Dennio and his friends, at Philadelpbia, I passed the few agreeable moments which my tour through the States afforded me. Me Dennie has succeeded in diffusing through this elegant liule circle that love for good literature and sound polities, wbich 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 corraption that surround them. If I did not hate, as lought, the rabble to which they are opposed, I could not value, as I do, the spirit with which ihey defy it; and in learning from them what Americans can be, I but see with the more indignation what Americans are.

The gem has been beguiled away;

Whose harp around my altar swells,
Her have lost their chastening ray;

The sweetest of a thousand shells?,
The simple fear, the guiltless shame,
The smiles that from reflection came,

’T was thus the deity, who treads All, all have fled, and left her mind

The arch of Heaven, and grandly sheds A faded monument behind!

Day from his eye-lids !--- thus he spoke,
Like some wave-beaten, mouldering stone,

As through my cell his glories broke:
Το memory raised by hands unknown,
Which, many a wintry hour, has stood

- Who is the ma with golden hair, Beside the ford of Tyra's flood,


of fire and feet of air, To tell the traveller, as he cross'd,

Whose harp around my altar swells,
That there some loved friend was lost;

The sweetest of a thousand shells!,
Oh!'t was a sight I wept to see-
Heaven keep the lost-one's fate from thee!

Aphelia is the Delphic fair,'

of fire and golden hair,

Aphelia's are the airy feet,

And hers the harp divinely swect;
'T is time, I feel, to leave thee now,
While yet my soul is something free;

For foot so light has never trod Wbile yet those dangerous eyes


The laureld caverns ? of the god, One moment's thought to stray from thee!

Nor harp so soft has eyer given

A strain to earth or sigh to Ileaven!
Oh! thou art every instant dearer-
Every chance that brings me nigh thee,

Then tell the virgin to unfold,
Brings my ruin nearer, nearer:

In looser pomp, her locks of gold, I am lost, unless I fly thee!

And bid those eyes with fonder fire

Be kindled for a god's desire;3
Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me,

Since He, who lights the path of years —
Wish me not so soon to fall,

Even from the fount of morning's tears,
Duties, fame, and hopes await me,

To where his setting splendours burn
Oh! that eye would blast them all!

Upon the western sea-maid's urn

Cannot, in all his course, behold
Yes, yes it would—for thou 'rt as cold

Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold!
As ever yet allured or sway'd,

Tell her he comes in blissful pride,
And wouldst, without a sigh, behold

His lip yet sparkling with the tide
The ruin which thyself had made!

That mantles in Olympian bowls,

The nectar of eternal souls !
Yet-could I think that, truly fond,

For her, for her he quits the skies,

but once would smile on me,

And to her kiss from nectar flics.
Good Heaven! how much, how far beyond
Fame, duty, hope, that smile would be!

nation towards any fair visitor of the shrine, and ot the same time felt

a diffidence in his own powers of persuasion, be bad but to proclaim Oh! but to win it, night and day,

that the God himself was enamoured of her, and had signified bis Inglorious at thy feet reclined,

divine will that she sbould sleep in the interior of tbe temple. Many

a pious husband connised at this divine assiguation, and even derd sigh my dreams of fame away,

clared bimself proud of lbe selection with which his family bad been The world for thee forgot, resign'd!

distinguisbed by the deity. In the temple of Jupiter Belas thero

was a splendid bed for these occasions. In Egyptian Thebes the But no, no, no-farewell—we part,

same mockery was practised ; and at the oracle of Patara iu Lycia, Never to meet, no, never, never

the priestess never could prophecy till an interview with the deity

was allowed her. The story which we read in Joseputs (lib. xviii, Oh woman! what a mind and heart

cap. 3) of the Roman matron Paulina, whom the priests of Isis, for Thy coldness has undone for ever!

a bribe, betrayed in this manner to Mundus, is a singalar instance of the impudent excess to which credulity suffered tbese impostures to be carried. This story has been put into the form of a little novel,

under the name of La Pudicitia Schernita, by the licentious and unFROM

fortunate PALLAVICINO. See his Opere Scelte, tom. i.- I have made THE HIGH PRIEST OF APOLLO,

my priest bere prefer a cave to the temple.

"In the gıh Pythic of Pindar, where Apollo, in the same manner,

requires of Chiron some information respecting tbe fair Cyrene, the A VIRGIN OF DELPHI.!

Centaur, in obeying, very gravely apologises for telling the God what

his omniscience must know so perfectly already :
Cum digno digna

Ει δε γε χρη και παρ σοφον αντιφεριξαν


2 Αλλ' εις δαφνωση γυαλα βησομαι ταδε.--Ετ1ΡΙb. « Who is the maid, with golden hair,

Ion. v.76. With cyes of fire and feet of air,

* Ne deve partorir ammiratione ch' egli si pregiasse di baver una

Deità concorrente nel possesso della moglie; mentre anche noi nei * This poem requires a little explanation. It is well known that, nostri secoli, non ostante così rigorose lecce d'onore, trovasi chi in the ancient temples, w benever a reverend priest, like the supposeu s'ascrive à gloria il veder la moglie honorata da gl'amplessi di un Buthor of the invitation before us, was inspired with a tender incli- Principe. - PallaviCINO.


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