As sweet as, of old, was imagin'd to dwell
In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell.
And oft, at those lingering moments of night,
When the heart is weigh'd down and the eyelid is light,
You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love,
Such as angel to angel might whisper above!
Oh spirit! and then, could you borrow the tone
Of that voice, to my ear so bewitchingly known,
The voice of the one upon earth, who has twin'd
With her essence 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 that voice on my ear,
I will think at that moment my CARA is near,
That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak,
And kisses my eyelid and sighs on my cheek,
And tells me, the night shall go rapidly by,

For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh!
Sweet 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!

PEACE AND GLÓRY.

WRITTEN AT THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE PRESENT WAR.

WHERE is now the smile, that lighten'd
Every hero's couch of rest?

Where is now the hope, that brighten'd
Honour'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 pluck'd again?

Passing hour of sunny weather
Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,

Wander'd through the 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 the 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 guest 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 sanguine 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!

то

1801.

To be the theme of every hour

The heart devotes to fancy's power,
When her soft magic fills the mind

With friends and joys we've left behind,

448

And joys return and friends are near,
And all are welcom'd with a tear!
In the mind's purest seat to dwell,
To be remember'd oft and well

By one whose heart, though vain and wild,
By passion led, by youth beguil❜d,
Can proudly still aspire to know
The feeling soul's divinest glow!
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,
When passion doth not first betray,
And tinge the thought upon its way!
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 something I should long to warm,
Which, though it yield no answering thrill,
Is not less dear, is lovely still!

I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray,

The bright, cold burthen of my way!
To keep this semblance fresh in bloom,
My heart shall be its glowing tomb,
And love shall lend his sweetest care,
With mem❜ry to embalm it there!

"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 ANON. its dreadful morasses."

La Pocsie a ses monstres comme la nature.

"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,*
"Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,

"She paddles her white canoe.

D'ALEMBERT.

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.

"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 stirr'd the brake,
And the copper-snake breath'd 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 play'd

"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 hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from shore;

Far he follow'd the meteor spark,

The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat return'd 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!

EPISTLE III.

TO THE

MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF D-LL.
FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY 1804.

LADY! where'er you roam, whatever beam
Of bright creation warms your mimic dream;
Whether you trace the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;1
Enamour'd 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 the holy shrine,
Where, many a night, the soul of Tell complains
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;
Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the tablet that creative eye,
And let its splendour, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay!

Yet, Lady! no

2

for song so rude as mine,

Chase not the wonders of your dream divine:

Still, radiant eye! upon the tablet dwell;

Still, rosy finger! weave your pictur'd spell;

1 Lady D., I supposed, was at this time still in Switzerland, where the powers of her pencil must have been frequently awakened.

2 The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne.

450

And, while I sing th' 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,
And wondering Genius, as he lean'd 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!

Have you not oft, in nightly vision, stray'd
To the pure isles of ever blooming shade,
Which bards of old, with kindly magic, plac'd
For happy spirits in th' Atlantic waste?1
There as eternal gales, with fragrance warm,
Breath'd from elysium through each shadowy form
In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song,
They charm'd their lapse of nightless hours along!
Nor yet in song, that mortal ear may suit,
For every spirit was itself a lute,

Where virtue waken'd, 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 arbours o'er the western wave,
Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime,
Of bow'rs etherial and the spirit's clime!

The morn was lovely, every wave was still,
When the first perfume of a cedar hill

2

Sweetly awak'd us, and, with smiling charms,
The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms.
Gently we stole, before the languid wind,

Through plaintain shades, that like an awning twin'd
And kiss'd 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 enamour'd keel, with whispering play,
Through liquid herbage seem'd to steal its way!
Never did weary bark more sweetly glide,
Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide!
Along the margin, many a brilliant dome,
White as the palace of a Lapland gnome,
Brighten'd 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 play'd,
Wreathing the structure into various grace,
Fancy would love, in many a form, to trace
The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch, 3
And dream of temples, till her kindling torch
Lighted me back to all the glorious days
Of Attic genius; and I seem'd to gaze

1 M. Gebelin says, in his Monde Primitif, "Lorsque Strabon crôt que les anciens théologiens et Poëtes plaçaient les champs élysées dans les isles de l'Océan Atlantique, il n'entendit rien à leur doctrine." M. Gebelin's supposition, I have no doubt, is the more correct; but that of Strabo is, in the present instance, most to my purpose.

2 Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbour 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, form all together the sweetest miniature of nature that can be imagined.

3 This is an allusion 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 fancy may embellish the poor fisherman's hut with columns which the pencil of Claude might imitate. I had one favourite 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 never could turn his house into a Grecian temple again.

On marble, from the rich Pentelic mount,
Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount.

Sweet airy being! who, in brighter hours,
Liv'd on the perfume of these honied bowers,
In velvet buds, at evening, lov'd 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 dimm'd or ruffled by a wintry sky,
Could smooth its feather and relume its dye),
A moment wander 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! take their fairest tint, their softest light,
Weave all their beauty into dreams of night,
And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies,
Shed the warmpicture o'er her mental eyes;
Borrow for sleep her own creative spells,
And brightly show what song but faintly tells!

THE

GENIUS OF HARMONY.

En Irregular Ode.

AD HARMONIAM CANERE MUNDUM,

Cicero de Nat. Deor. Lib. 3.

THERE lies a shell beneath the waves,
In many a hollow winding wreath'd,
Such as of old

Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breath'd;
This magic shell,

From the white bosom of a syren fell,

As once she wander'd by the tide that laves
Sicilia's sands of gold.

It bears

Upon its shining side the mystic notes

Of those entrancing airs, 2

The genii of the deep were wont to swell,
When heav'n's eternal orbs their midnight music roll'd!
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!

3

1 Ariel. Among the many charms which Bermuda has for a poetic eye, we cannot for an instant forget that it is the scene of Shakspeare's Tempest, and that here he conjured up the "delicate Ariel," who alone is worth the whole heaven of ancient mythology:

2 In the "Histoire naturelle des Antilles," there is an account of some curious shells, found at Curaçao, 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. "On le homme musical, par ce qu'il porte sur le dos des lignes noiraires pleincs de notes, qui ont une espèce de clé pour les mettre en chant, de sorte que l'on diroit qu'il ne manque que la lettre à cette tablature naturelle. Ce curieux gentilhomme (M. du Montel) rapporte qu'il en a vu qui avaient cinq lignes, une clé, et des notes, qui formaient un accord parfait. Quelqu'un y avait ajouté la lettre, que la nature avait oubliée, et la faisait chanter en forme de trio, dont l'air était fort agréable." Chap. 19. Art. 11. The author adds, a poet might imagine that these shells were used by the syrens at their concerts.

3 According to Cicero, and his commentator, Macrobius, the lunar tone is the gravest and faintest on the planetary heptachord. "Quam ob causam summus ille coeli stellifer cursus, cujus conversio est concitatior, acuto et excitato movetur sono; gravissimo autem hic lunaris atque infimus." Somn. Scip. Because, says Macrobius, "spiritu ut in extremitate languescente jam volvitur, et propter angustias, quibus penultimus orbis arctatur impetu leniore convertitur." In Somn. Scip. Lib. 2., Cap. 4. It is not very easy to understand the ancients in their musical arrangement of the heavenly bodies. See Ptolem. Lib. 3.

Leone Hebreo, pursuing the idea of Aristotle, that the heavens are animal, attributes their harmony to perfect and reciprocal love. "Non pero manca fra loro ill perfetto et reciproco amore: la causa principale, che ne mostra il loro amore, è la lor amicitia harmonica et la concordantia, che perpetuamente si trova in loro." Dialog. 2. di Amore, p. 58. This reciproco