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. On 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 honour to present.

I am, my Lord,

With every feeling of attachment and respect,
Your Lordship's very devoted servant,
THOMAS MOORE.

27, Bury-street, St James's, April 10, 1806.

PREFACE.

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 inhabi

tants.

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 Eric. 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.

Epistles VI, VII, and VIII.

many

of

I went to America with prepossessions by no means unfavourable; and indeed rather indulged in 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 the clysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their visions realized, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and repose. I was completely disappointed in every flattering expectation which I had formed, and was 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 embitters all social intercourse; and, though I scarcely could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared 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 Demo crats, consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgarity of rancour, 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 remote from its elegant characteristics, it is impossible not to feel that this youthful decay, this crude anticipation of the natural period of corruption, represses 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 will not allow me to enter 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 apprized 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 favourable 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 sincerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them.

Oh, Strangford! when we parted last,
I little thought the 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 turn to rapture all we knew!
Delicious days of whim and soul!

When, mingling lore and laugh together, We lean'd the book on pleasure's bowl,

And turn'd the leaf with folly's feather! I little thought that all were fled, That, ere that summer's bloom was shed, My eye should see the sail unfurl'd That wafts me to the western world!

And yet 't was time-in youthful days,
To cool the season's burning rays,

1 Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the moon by the means of a magic mirror.-See BAYLE, art. Pythag.

The heart may let its wanton wing
Repose awhile in pleasure's spring;
But, if it wait for winter's breeze,

The spring will dry, 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 hopes 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 fear'd to wake

The slumber of the silent tides! The only envious cloud that lowers,

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height, 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 melting smiles,

That brighten many an orange bower; And could I lift each pious veil,

And see the blushing check it shades, Oh! I should have full many a tale, To tell of young Azorian maids.3

Dear Strangford' at this hour, perhaps,
Some faithful lover (not so blest
As they 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 dear beguiling minstrelsy

Would make the coldest nymph his own.

Alluding to these animated lines in the 44th Carmen of this poet :

Jam mens prætrepidans avet vagari,
Jam læti studio pedes vigescunt!

Pico is 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.

I believe it is Guthrie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores are much addicted to gallantry. This is an assertion in which even Guthrie may be credited.

These islands belong to the Portuguese.

Yet, oh!—not many a suffering hour, Thy cup of shame on earth was given: Benignly came some pitying power,

And took the Lyre and thee to heaven!

There, as thy lover dries the tear

Yet warm from life's malignant wrongs, Within his arms, thou lovest to hear

The luckless Lyre's remember'd songs!

Still do your happy souls attune

The notes it learn'd, on earth to move; Still breathing o'er the chords, commune In sympathies of angel love!

TO THE FLYING-FISH. '

WHEN I have seen thy snowy wing
O'er the blue wave at evening spring,
And give those scales, of silver white,
So gaily to the eye of light,

As if thy frame were form'd 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 scorns to rest
Upon the world's ignoble breast,

But takes the plume that God has given,
And rises into light and Heaven!

FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.
IN days, my Kate, when life was new,
When, lull'd with innocence and you,

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; συγγένειαν τοις πετομένοις προς τα νηκτα. With this thought in our minds when we first see the flying-fish, we could almost fancy that we are present at tl e moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from thewaves.

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 bless'd them into pure repose!
Then, haply if a week, a day,

I linger'd from your arms away,
How long the little absence seem'd!
How bright the look of welcome beam'd,
As mute you heard, with eager smile,
My tales of all that pass'd the while!
Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea
Rolls wide between that home and me;
The moon may thrice be born and die,
Ere even your seal can reach mine eye;
And oh even then, that darling seal
(Upon whose print I used to feel
The breath of home, the cordial air
Of loved lips, still freshly there!)
Must come, alas! through every fate
Of time and distance, cold and late,
When the dear hand whose touches fill'd
The leaf with sweetness may be chill'd!
But hence that gloomy thought At last,
Beloved Kate! the waves are pass'd:
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 hurl'd
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 rights they won
For hearth and altar, sire and son,
Smiles on the dusky webs that hide
His sleeping sword's remember'd 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;

Such is the picture, warmly such,
That long the spell of Fancy's touch
Hath painted to my sanguine eye
Of man's new world of liberty!

Oh! ask me not if Truth will seal
The reveries of Fancy's zeal,

If yet my charmed eyes behold
These features of an age of gold-
No-yet, alas! no gleaming trace!'
Never did youth, who loved a face
From portrait's rosy, flattering art,
Recoil with more regret of heart,
To find an owlet eye of grey,
Where painting pour'd the sapphire's ray,
Than I have felt, indignant felt,

To think the glorious dreams should melt,
Which oft, in boyhood's witching time,
Have wrapt me to this wondrous clime!

As yet, we have beheld no more
Than just the porch to Freedom's fane,
And, though a sable drop may stain
The vestibule, 't is impious sin
To doubt there 's holiness within!
So here I pause-and now, my Kate,

Το

you (whose simplest ringlet's fate
Can claim more interest in my 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 notes I send you here,3
Though rude and wild, would still be dear,
If you but knew the trance of thought
In which my mind their murmurs caught.
'T was one of those enchanting dreams,
That lull me oft, when Music seems
To pour the soul in sound along,
And turn its every sigh to song!

I thought of home, the according lays
Respired the breath of happier days;
Warmly in every rising note

I felt some dear remembrance float,
Till, led by Music's fairy chain,
I wander'd back to home again!

'Such romantic works as The American Farmer's Letters, and the Account of Kentucky, by IMLAT, 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. The French travellers too, almost all from revolutionary motives, have contributed their share to the diffusion of this flattering misconception. A visit to the country is, however, quite sufficient to correct even the most enthusiastic prepossession.

* Norfolk, it must be owned, is an unfavourable 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 odour that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation. A trifling attempt at musical composition accompanied this Epistle.

Oh! love the song, and let it oft
Live on your lip, in warble soft!
Say that it tells you, simply well,
All I have bid its murmurs tell,
Of memory's glow, of dreams that shed
The tinge of joy when joy is fled,
And all the heart's illusive hoard
Of love renew'd and friends restored!
Now, sweet, adieu-this artless air,
And 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,❜
You shall have many a cowslip-bell
Where Ariel slept, and many a shell
In which the gentle spirit drew
From honey flowers the morning dew!

TO CARA,

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

CONCEAL'D 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 path-way 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 't is gone-the storms are keen, The baby may be chill'd to death!

Perhaps his little eyes are shaded

Dim by Death's eternal chill-
And yet, perhaps, they are not faded;
Life and love may light them still.

Thus, when my soul with parting sigh,

Hung on thy hand's bewildering touch, And, timid, ask'd that speaking eye,

If parting pain'd thee half so much:

I thought, and, oh! forgive the thought,
For who, by eyes like thine inspired,
Could e'er resist the flattering fault
Of fancying what his soul desired?

Yes-I did think, in Cara's mind,
Though yet to Cara's mind unknown,
I left one infant wish behind,
One feeling, which I call'd 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!

The poems which immediately follow. * Bermuda.