Poems (1816) :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO THE VISIONS OF FANCY.

Dear, wild illusions of creative mind!
Whose varying hues arise to Fancy's art,
And by her magic force are swift combin'd
In forms that please, and scenes that touch the heart:
Oh! whether at her voice ye soft assume
The pensive grace of Sorrow drooping low;
Or rise, sublime, on Terror's lofty plume,
And shake the soul with wildly thrilling woe;
Or, sweetly bright, your gayer tints ye spread,
Bid scenes of pleasure steal upon my view,
Love wave his purple pinions o'er my head,
And wake the tender thought to passion true;
O! still—ye shadowy forms attend my lonely hours,
Still chase my real cares with your illusive powers!

SONNET, TO THE LILLY.

Soft silken flow'r! that in the dewy vale
Unfolds thy modest beauties to the morn,
And breath'st thy fragrance on her wand'ring gale,
O'er earth's green hills and shadowy vallies born;

When day has closed his dazzling eye,
And dying gales sink soft away;
When Eve steals down the western sky,
And mountains, woods, and vales decay;

Thy tender cups, that graceful swell,
Droop sad beneath her chilly dews;
Thy odours seek their silken cell,
And twilight veils thy languid hues.

But soon, fair flow'r! the morn shall rise,
And rear again thy pensive head;
Again unveil thy snowy dyes,
Again thy velvet foliage spread.

Sweet child of Spring! like thee in sorrow's shade,
Full oft I mourn in tears, and droop forlorn:
And O! like thine, may light my gloom pervade,
And Sorrow fly before Joy's living morn!

NIGHT.

Now Ev'ning fades! her pensive step retires,
And Night leads on the dews, and shadowy hours:
Her awful pomp of planetary fires,
And all her train of visionary powers.

These paint with fleeting shapes the dream of sleep,
These swell the waking soul with pleasing dread;
These through the glooms in forms terrific sweep,
And rouse the thrilling horrors of the dead!

Queen of the solemn thought—mysterious Night!
Whose step is darkness, and whose voice is fear!
Thy shades I welcome with severe delight,
And hail thy hollow gales, that sigh so drear!

When, wrapt in clouds, and riding in the blast,
Thou roll'st the storm along the sounding shore,
I love to watch the whelming billows, cast
On rocks below, and listen to the roar.

Thy milder terrors, Night, I frequent woo,
Thy silent lightnings, and thy meteor's glare,
Thy northern fires, bright with ensanguine hue,
That light in heaven's high vault the fervid air.

But chief I love thee, when thy lucid car
Sheds through the fleecy clouds a trembling gleam,
And shews the misty mountain from afar,
The nearer forest, and the valley's stream:

And nameless objects in the vale below,
That floating dimly to the musing eye,
Assume, at Fancy's touch, fantastic shew,
And raise her sweet romantic visions high.

Then let me stand amidst thy glooms profound
On some wild woody steep, and hear the breeze
That swells in mournful melody around,
And faintly dies upon the distant trees.

What melancholy charm steals o'er the mind!
What hallow'd tears the rising rapture greet!
While many a viewless spirit in the wind
Sighs to the lonely hour in accents sweet!

Ah! who the dear illusions pleas'd would yield,
Which Fancy wakes from silence and from shades,
For all the sober forms of Truth reveal'd,
For all the scenes that Day's bright eye pervades!

SONG.

[Life's a varied, bright illusion]

Life's a varied, bright illusion,
Joy and sorrow—light and shade;
Turn from sorrow's dark suffusion,
Catch the pleasures ere they fade.

Fancy paints with hues unreal,
Smile of bliss, and sorrow's mood;
If they both are but ideal,
Why reject the seeming good?

Hence! no more! 'tis Wisdom calls ye,
Bids ye court Time's present aid;
The future trust not—Hope enthrals ye,
“Catch the pleasures ere they fade.”

SONG OF A SPIRIT.

In the sightless air I dwell,
On the sloping sun-beams play;
Delve the cavern's inmost cell,
Where never yet did day-light stray.

Dive beneath the green-sea waves,
And gambol in the briny deeps;
Skim every shore that Neptune laves,
From Lapland's plains to India's steeps.

Oft I mount with rapid force
Above the wide earth's shadowy zone;
Follow the day-star's flaming course
Through realms of space to thought unknown;

And listen to celestial sounds,
That swell the air, unheard of men,
As I watch my nightly rounds
O'er woody steep, and silent glen.

Under the shade of waving trees.
On the green bank of fountain clear,
At pensive eve I sit at ease,
While dying music murmurs near.

And oft, on point of airy clift,
That hangs upon the western main,
I watch the gay tints passing swift,
And twilight veil the liquid plain.

Then, when the breeze has sunk away,
And ocean scarce is heard to lave,
For me the sea-nymphs softly play
Their dulcet shells beneath the wave.

Their dulcet shells! I hear them now;
Slow swells the strain upon mine ear;
Now faintly falls—now warbles low,
'Till rapture melts into a tear.

The ray that silvers o'er the dew,
And trembles through the leafy shade,
And tints the scene with softer hue,
Calls me to rove the lonely glade;

Or hie me to some ruin'd tow'r,
Faintly shewn by moon-light gleam,
Where the lone wand'rer owns my pow'r
In shadows dire that substance seem;

In thrilling sounds that murmur woe,
And pausing silence makes more dread;
In music breathing from below
Sad, solemn Strains, that wake the dead.

Unseen I move—unknown am fear'd!
Fancy's wildest dreams I weave;
And oft by bards my voice is heard
To die along the gales of eve.

SONNET.

[Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose]

Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose,
And wake the blushes of the rose,
That all night long oppress'd with dews,
And veil'd in chilly shade its hues,
Reclin'd, forlorn, the languid head,
And sadly sought its parent bed;
Warmth from her ray the trembling flow'r derives,
And, sweetly blushing, through its tears revives.

“Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose,”
And melt the tears that bend the rose;
But can their charms suppress the sigh,
Or chace the tear from Sorrow's eye?
Can all their lustrous light impart
One ray of peace to sorrow's heart?
Ah! no; their fires her fainting soul oppress—
Eve's pensive shades more soothe her meek distress!

STANZAS.

[How smooth that lake expands its ample breast!]

How smooth that lake expands its ample breast!
Where smiles in soften'd glow the summer sky:
How vast the rocks that o'er its surface rest!
How wild the scenes its winding shores supply!

Now down the western steep slow sinks the sun,
And paints with yellow gleam the tufted woods:
While here the mountain-shadows, broad and dun,
Sweep o'er the crystal mirror of the floods.

Mark how his splendour tips with partial light
Those shatter'd battlements! that on the brow
Of yon bold promontory burst to sight
From o'er the woods that darkly spread below.

In the soft blush of light's reflected power,
The ridgy rock, the woods that crown its steep,
Th' illumin'd battlement, and darker tower,
On the smooth wave in trembling beauty sleep.

But lo! the sun recalls his fervid ray,
And cold and dim, the wat'ry visions fail;
While o'er yon cliff, whose pointed craggs decay,
Mild Evening draws her thin empurpled veil!

How sweet that strain of melancholy horn!
That floats along the slowly ebbing wave;
And up the far-receding mountains borne,
Returns a dying close from Echo's cave!

Hail! shadowy forms of still, expressive Eve!
Your pensive graces stealing on my heart,
Bid all the fine-attun'd emotions live,
And fancy all her loveliest dreams impart.

SUN-RISE: A SONNET.

Oft let me wander, at the break of day,
Thro' the cool vale o'erhung with waving woods,
Drink the rich fragrance of the budding May,
And catch the murmur of the distant floods;
Or rest on the fresh bank of limpid rill,
Where sleeps the vi'let in the dewy shade,
Where op'ning lilies balmy sweets distil,
And the wild musk-rose weeps along the glade:
Or climb the eastern cliff, whose airy head
Hangs rudely o'er the blue and misty main;
Watch the fine hues of morn through æther spead,
And paint with roseate glow the crystal plain.
Oh! who can speak the rapture of the soul
When o'er the waves the sun first steals to sight,

And all the world of waters, as they roll,
And Heaven's vast vault unveils in living light!
So life's young hour to man enchanting smiles,
With sparkling health, and joy, and fancy's fairy wiles:

TITANIA TO HER LOVE.

O! fly with me through distant air
To isles that gem the western deep!
For laughing Summer revels there,
And hangs her wreath on every steep.

As through the green transparent sea
Light floating on the waves we go,
The nymphs shall gaily welcome me,
Far in their coral caves below.

For oft upon their margin sands,
When twilight leads the fresh'ning hours,
I come with all my jocund bands
To charm them from their sea-green bow'rs.

And well they love our sports to view,
And on the Ocean's breast to lave;
And oft as we the dance renew,
They call up music from the wave.

Swift hie we to that splendid clime,
Where gay Jamaica spreads her scene,
Lifts the blue mountain—wild—sublime!
And smooths her vales of vivid green.

Where throned high, in pomp of shade,
The Power of Vegetation reigns,
Expanding wide, o'er hill and glade,
Shrubs of all growth—fruit of all stains:

She steals the sun-beam's fervid glow,
To paint her flow'rs of mingling hue;
And o'er the grape the purple throw,
Breaking from verdant leaves to view.

There myrtle bow'rs, and citron grove,
O'ercanopy our airy dance;
And there the sea-breeze loves to rove,
When trembles day's departing glance.

And when the false moon steals away,
Or o'er the chasing morn doth rise,
Oft, fearless, we our gambols play
By the fire-worm's radiant eyes.

And suck the honey'd reeds that swell
In tufted plumes of silver white;
Or pierce the cocoa's milky cell,
To sip the nectar of delight!

And when the shaking thunders roll,
And light'nings strike athwart the gloom,
We shelter in the cedar's bole,
And revel 'mid the rich perfume!

But chief we love beneath the palm,
Or verdant plantain's spreading leaf,
To hear, upon the midnight calm,
Sweet Philomela pour her grief.

To mortal sprite such dulcet sound,
Such blissful hours, were never known!
O fly with me my airy round,
And I will make them all thine own!

SONNET.

[How-sweet is Love's first gentle sway]

How-sweet is Love's first gentle sway,
When crown'd with flow'rs he softly smiles!
His blue eyes fraught with tearful wiles,
Where beams of tender transport play:
Hope leads him on his airy way,
And Faith and Fancy still beguiles—
Faith quickly tangled in her toils—
Fancy, whose magic forms so gay
The fair Deceiver's self deceive—
“How sweet is Love's first gentle sway;”
Ne'er would that heart he bids to grieve
From Sorrow's soft enchantments stray—
Ne'er—till the God exulting in his art,
Relentless frowns and wings th' envenom'd dart,

MORNING, ON THE SEA-SHORE.

What print of fairy feet is here
On Neptune's smooth and yellow sands?
What midnight revel's airy dance,
Beneath the moon-beam's trembling glance
Has blest these shores?—What sprightly bands
Have chac'd the waves uncheck'd by fear?
Whoe'er they were they fled from morn,
For now, all silent and forlorn,
These tide-forsaken sands appear—
Return, sweet sprites! the scene to cheer!

In vain the call!—'Till moonlight's hour
Again diffuse its softer pow'r,
Titania, nor her fairy loves,
Emerge from India's spicy groves.

Then, when the shad'wy hour returns,
When silence reigns o'er air and earth,
And ev'ry star in æther burns,
They come to celebrate their mirth;
In frolic ring light trip the ground,
Bid Music's voice on Silence win,
'Till magic echoes answer round—
Thus do their festive rites begin.

O fairy forms so coy to mortal ken,
Your mystic steps to poets only shewn;
O! lead me to the brook, or hollow'd glen,
Retiring far, with winding woods o'ergrown!
Where'er ye best delight to rule;
If in some forest's lone retreat,
Thither conduct my willing feet
To the light brink of fountain cool,
Where, sleeping in the midnight dew,
Lie Spring's young buds of ev'ry hue,

Yielding their sweet breath to the air;
To fold their silken leaves from harm,
And their chill heads in moonshine warm,
Is bright Titania's tender care.

There, to the night-birds's plaintive chaunt
Your carols sweet ye love to raise,
With oaten reed and past'ral lays;
And guard with forceful spell her haunt,
Who, when your antic sports are done,
Oft lulls ye in the lily's cell,
Sweet flow'r! that suits your slumbers well,
And shields ye from the rising sun.
When not to India's steeps ye fly
After twilight and the moon,
In honey buds ye love to lie,
While reigns supreme Light's fervid noon;
Nor quit the cell where peace pervades.
'Till night leads on the dews and shades.

E'en now your scenes enchanted meet my sight!
I see the earth unclose, the palace rise,
The high dome swell, and long arcades of light
Glitter among the deep embow'ring woods,
And glance reflecting from the trembling floods!
While to soft lutes the portals wide unfold,
And fairy forms, of fine ætherial dyes,
Advance with frolic step and laughing eyes,
Their hair with pearl, their garments deck'd with gold;
Pearls that in Neptune's briny waves they sought,
And gold from India's deepest caverns brought.
Thus your light visions to my eyes unveil,
Ye sportive pleasures, sweet illusion, hail!
But ah! at morn's first blush again ye fade!
So from youth's ardent gaze life's landscape gay,
And forms in Fancy's summer hues array'd,
Dissolve at once in air at Truth's resplendent day!

NIGHT.

O'er the dim breast of Ocean's wave
Night spreads afar her gloomy wings,
And pensive thought, and silence brings,
Save when the distant waters lave.
Or when the mariner's lone voice
Swells faintly in the passing gale,
Or when the screaming sea-gulls poise
O'er the tall mast and swelling sail,
Bounding the grey gleam of the deep,
Where fancy'd forms arouse the mind,
Dark sweep the shores, on whose rude steep
Sighs the sad spirit of the wind.

Sweet is its voice upon the air
At ev'ning's melancholy close,
When the smooth wave in silence flows!
Sweet, sweet the peace its stealing accents bear!
Blest be thy shades, O Night! and blest the song
Thy low winds breathe the distant shores along!

SUN-SET.

Soft o'er the mountain's purple brow
Meek Twilight draws her shadows grey:
From tufted woods and vallies low,
Light's magic colours steal away.
Yet still, amid the spreading gloom,
Resplendent glow the western waves,
That roll o'er Neptune's coral caves,
A zone of light on Ev'ning's dome.
On this lone summit let me rest,
And view the forms to Fancy dear,
'Till on the Ocean's darken'd breast
The stars of Ev'ning tremble clear;
Or the moon's pale orb appear,
Throwing her line of radiance wide,
Far o'er the lightly-curling tide,
That seems the yellow sands to chide.

No sounds o'er silence now prevail,
Save of the dying wave below,
Or sailor's song borne on the gale,
Or oar at distance striking slow.
So sweet! so tranquil! may my ev'ning ray
Set to this world—and rise in future day.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Child of the melancholy song!
O yet that tender strain prolong!

Her lengthen'd shade when Ev'ning flings,
From mountain-cliffs, and forests green,
And sailing slow on silent wings,
Along the glimm'ring West is seen;
I love o'er pathless hills to stray,
Or trace the winding vale remote,
And pause, sweet Bird! to hear thy lay,
While moon-beams on the thin clouds float;
'Till o'er the Mountain's dewy head
Pale Midnight steals to wake the dead.

Far through the Heav'ns' ætherial blue,
Wafted on Spring's light airs you come,
With blooms, and flow'rs, and genial dew,
From climes where Summer joys to roam,
O! welcome to your long lost home!

“Child of the melancholy song!”
Who lov'st the lonely woodland-glade
To mourn, unseen, the boughs among,
When Twilight spreads her pensive shade,
Again thy dulcet voice I hail!
O! pour again the liquid note
That dies upon the ev'ning gale!
For Fancy loves the kindred tone;
Her griefs the plaintive accents own.
She loves to hear thy music float

At solemn midnight's stillest hour,
And think on friends for ever lost,
On joys by disappointment crost,
And weep anew Love's charmful pow'r!
Then Memory wakes the magic smile,
Th' impassion'd voice, the melting eye,
That won't the trusting heart beguile,
And wakes again the hopeless sigh!
Her skill the glowing tints revive
Of scenes that Time had bade decay:
She bids the soften'd Passions live—
The Passions urge again their sway.
Yet o'er the long-regretted scene,
Thy song the grace of sorrow throws;
A melancholy charm serene,
More rare than all that mirth bestows.
Then hail, sweet Bird! and hail thy pensive tear!
To Taste, to Fancy, and to Virtue dear!

SONG.

[The rose that weeps with morning dew]

The rose that weeps with morning dew,
And glitters in the sunny ray,
In tears of smiles resembles you,
When Love breaks Sorrow's cloud away.

The dews that bend the blushing flow'r,
Enrich the scent—renew the glow;
So Love's sweet tears exalt his pow'r,
So bliss more brightly shines by woe!

AIR.

[Now, at Moonlight's fairy hour]

Now, at Moonlight's fairy hour,
When faintly gleams each dewy steep,
And vale and Mountain, lake and bow'r,
In solitary grandeur sleep;

When slowly sinks the evening breeze,
That lulls the mind in pensive care,
And Fancy loftier visions sees,
Bid Music wake the silent air.

Bid the merry, merry tabor sound,
And with the Fays of lawn or glade,
In tripping circlet beat the ground,
Under the high trees' trembling shade.

“Now, at Moonlight's fairy hour,”
Shall Music breathe her dulcet voice,
And o'er the waves, with magic pow'r,
Call on Echo to rejoice.

THE GLOW-WORM.

How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade
On a midsummer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er;
When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade,
And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!

But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour,
'Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves,
And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r,
The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.

Then no more they dance, 'till her sad song is done,
But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star,
And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,
How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, came not near!

Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love!
For, often when the traveller is benighted on his way,
And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove,
They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,
'Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!

But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the labor, and the horn,
And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;
Then round about the oak they go 'till peeping of the morn.

Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,
Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,
That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,
To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells can free.

And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;
If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,
And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.

O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil,
And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

But soon the vapour of the woods will wander afar,
And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, come not near!

THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING.

How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,
When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
And fades as morning spreads her blush around!

When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,
Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
Expands its tender blossom to the light,
And gives its incense to the genial air.

How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume;
And swells the melody of waking birds;
The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!

Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,
Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,
With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.

But, vain the sylvan shade—the breath of May,
The voice of music floating on the gale,
And forms that beam through morning's dewy veil,
If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,
Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

SONNET.

[Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve]

Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,
That creeps, in shudd'ring sits, along the wave,
And trembles 'mid the woods, and through the cave
Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive;
For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,
He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,
Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears,
To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind!
Now the bat circles, and the twilight dew
Falls silent round, and, o'er the mountain-cliff,
The gleaming wave and far-discover'd skiff,
Spreads the grey veil of soft, harmonious hue.
So falls o'er Grief the dew of pity's tear
Dimming her lonely visions of despair.

STORIED SONNET.

The weary traveller, who, all night long,
Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps,
Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng
Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps
If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees
The mountain-shepherd's solitary home,
Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees,
What sudden transports to his bosom come!
But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,
Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,
In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn
He stands, and views in luna's dubious rays

Far, far below, the torrent's rising surge,
And listens to the wild impetuous roar;
Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,
Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er.
Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,
His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks—he dies!

THE PIEDMONTESE.

Ah, merry swain, who laugh'd along the vales,
And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,
Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,
And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring?
He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string,
Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!
Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,
And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.
Once more he turns to view his native scene—
Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,
He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green,
The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;
And thinks of friends and parents left behind,
Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;
And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;

And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!
Thus went the swain, till mountain shadows fell,
And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight;
And must he leave the vales he loves so well?
Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?
No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear
His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;
Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,
And watch at eve beneath the western trees.
Away, Venetian gold—your charm is o'er!
And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs,
Where, through the leaves, his cottage light once more
Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.
Ah, merry swain! that laughs along the vales,
And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,
Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales—
And friends belov'd—more joy than wealth can bring!

THE SEA-NYMPH.

Down, down a thousand fathom deep,
Among the sounding seas I go;
Play round the foot of every steep
Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.

There, within their secret caves,
I hear the mighty rivers roar;
And guide their streams through Neptune's waves
To bless the green earth's inmost shore:

And bid the freshen'd waters glide,
For fern-crown'd nymphs of lake, or brook,
Through winding woods and pastures wide,
And many a wild, romantic nook.

For this the nymphs, at fall of eve,
Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks,
And sing my name, and garlands weave
To bear beneath the wave their thanks.

In coral bow'rs I love to lie,
And hear the surges roll above,
And, through the waters, view on high
The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.

And oft at midnight's stillest hour,
When summer seas the vessel lave,
I love to prove my charmful pow'r
While floating on the moon-light wave.

And when deep sleep the crew has bound,
And the sad lover musing leans
O'er the ship's side, I breathe around
Such strains as speak no mortal means!

O'er the dim waves his searching eye
Sees but the vessel's lengthen'd shade;
Above—the moon and azure sky;
Entranc'd he hears, and half afraid!

Sometimes a single note I swell,
That, softly sweet, at distance dies;
Then wake the magic of my shell,
And choral voices round me rise!

The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain,
Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend
O'er the high deck, but list in vain;
My song is hush'd, my wonders end!

Within the mountain's woody bay,
Where the tall bark at anchor rides,
At twilight hour, with tritons gay,
I dance upon the lapsing tides.

And with my sister-nymphs I sport,
'Till the broad sun looks o'er the floods;
Then, swift we seek our crystal court,
Deep in the wave, 'mid Neptune's woods.

In cool arcades and glassy halls
We pass the sultry hours of noon,
Beyond wherever sun-beam falls,
Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.

The while we chant our ditties sweet
To some soft shell that warbles near;
Join'd by the murmuring currents, fleet,
That glide along our halls so clear.

There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue,
And ruby red, and em'rald green,
Dart from the domes a changing hue,
And sparry columns deck the scene.

When the dark storm scowls o'er the deep,
And long, long peals of thunder sound,
On some high cliff my watch I keep
O'er all the restless seas around:

'Till on the ridgy wave, afar,
Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,
Spreading the white foam in the air,
With sail and topmast bending low.

Then, plunge I 'mid the ocean's roar,
My way by quiv'ring lightnings shewn,
To guide the bark to peaceful shore,
And hush the sailor's fearful groan.

And if too late I reach its side
To save it from the 'whelming surge,
I call my dolphins o'er the tide,
To bear the crew where isles emerge.

Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,
While round the desert coast I go,
With warbled songs they faintly hear,
Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.

My music leads to lofty groves,
That wild upon the sea-bank wave;
Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,
And closing boughs the tempest brave.

The spirits of the air obey
My potent voice they love so well;
And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,
While strains more sweet at distance swell.

And thus the lonely hours I cheat,
Soothing the ship-wreck'd sailor's heart,
'Till from the waves the storms retreat,
And o'er the east the day-beams dart.

Neptune for this oft binds me fast
To rocks below, with coral chain,
'Till all the tempest's over-past,
And drowning seamen cry in vain.

Whoe'er ye are that love my lay,
Come, when red sun-set tints the wave,
To the still sands, where fairies play;
There, in cool seas, I love to lave.

RONDEAU.

[Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps]

Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps
Upon the ocean's trembling tide;
Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps
Yon sail, that swells in stately pride:

Soft as the surge's stealing note,
That dies along the distant shores,
Or warbled strain, that sinks remote—
So soft the sigh my bosom pours!

True as the wave to Cynthia's ray,
True as the vessel to the breeze,
True as the soul to music's sway,
Or music to Venetian seas:

Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep
Upon the ocean's trembling breast:
So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,
So soft, so true, with thee shall rest.

THE PILGRIM.

Slow o'er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,
A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,
To deck the Lady of Loretto's seat
With all the little wealth his zeal could pay.
From mountain-tops cold died the ev'ning ray,
And, stretch'd in twilight, slept the vale below;
And now the last, last purple streaks of day
Along the melancholy West fade slow.
High o'er his head, the restless pines complain,
As on their summit rolls the breeze of night;
Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain:
The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height.
Then to the vale his cautious step he prest,
For there a hermit's cross was dimly seen,
Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,
Cheer'd in the good man's cave, by faggot's sheen,

On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest.
Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!
Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood;
No friendly moon his giant shadow threw
Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim's blood;
On as he went a vesper-hymn he sang,
The hymn, that nightly sooth'd him to repose.
Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang!
The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close,
Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,
But, dying, for his murd'rer breath'd—a sainted pray'r!

TO A SEA-NYMPH.

O nymph! who loves to float on the green wave,
When Neptune sleeps beneath the moon-light hour,
Lull'd by thy music's melancholy pow'r,
O nymph, arise from out thy pearly cave!

For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade,
And soon shall Cynthia tremble o'er the tide,
Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean's pride,
And lonely silence all the air pervade.

Then, let thy tender voice at distance swell,
And steal along this solitary shore,
Sink on the breeze, till dying—heard no more—
Thou wak'st the sudden magic of thy shell.

While the long coast in echo sweet replies,
Thy soothing strains the pensive heart beguile,
And bid the visions of the future smile,
O nymph! from out thy pearly cave—arise!

(Chorus)—
Arise!

(Semi-chorus)—
Arise!

THE MARINER.

Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow'd the tide;
And blue the heaven in its mirror smil'd;
The white sail trembled, swell'd, expanded wide,
The busy sailors at the anchor toil'd.

With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,
The deck is throng'd—how swift the moments fly;
The vessel heaves, the farewel signs appear;
Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!

The last dread moment comes!—The sailor-youth
Hides the big drop, and smiles amid his pain,
Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,
“Farewell, my love—we shall—shall meet again!”

Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;
The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view,
As gradual glides the bark along the flood;
His bride is seen no more—“Adieu!—adieu!”

The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o'er,
Dim steals her twilight down the crimson'd west,
He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more
The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.

He views its dark line on the distant sky,
And Fancy leads him to his little home,
He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,
He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.

Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,
In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;
He turns his aching eyes,—his spirit fails,
The chill tear falls;—sad to the deck he goes!

The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl'd,
Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore;
Fast o'er the waves the wretched bark is hurl'd,
“O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!”

Lightnings, that shew the vast and foamy deep,
The rending thunders, as they onward roll,
The loud, loud winds, that o'er the billows sweep—
Shake the firm nerve, appal the bravest soul!

Ah! what avails the seamen's toiling care!
The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv'n;
The sounds of terror groan along the air,
Then sink afar;—the bark on rocks is driv'n;

Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters pass'd,
The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!
Henry's faint accents trembled in the blast—
Farewell my love!—we ne'er shall meet again!”

Oft, at the calm and silent ev'ning hour,
When summer-breezes linger on the wave,
A melancholy voice is heard to pour
Its lonely sweetness o'er poor Henry's grave!

And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard
Around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid;
Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd,
For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade!

THE BUTTER-FLY TO HIS LOVE.

What bow'ry dell, with fragrant breath,
Courts thee to stay thy airy flight;
Nor seek again the purple heath,
So oft the scene of gay delight?

Long watch'd I in the lily's bell,
Whose whiteness stole the morning's beam;
No fluttering sounds thy coming tell,
No waving wings, at distance, gleam.

But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove,
Nor sunny mead, nor blossom'd tree,
So sweet as lily's cell shall prove,—
The bower of constant love and me.

When April buds begin to blow,
The primrose, and the hare-bell blue,
That on the verdant moss bank grow,
With violet cups, that weep in dew;

When wanton gales breathe through the shade,
And shake the blooms, and steal their sweets,
And swell the song of ev'ry glade,
I range the forest's green retreats:

There, through the tangled wood-walks play,
Where no rude urchin paces near,
Where scarcely peeps the sultry day,
And light dews freshen all the air.

High on a sun-beam oft I sport
O'er bower and fountain, vale and hill;
Oft ev'ry blushing flow'ret court,
That hangs its head o'er winding rill.

But these I'll leave to be thy guide,
And shew thee, where the jasmine spreads
Her snowy leaf, where may-flow'rs hide,
And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.

With me the mountain's summit scale,
And taste the wild-thyme's honied bloom,
Whose fragrance, floating on the gale,
Oft leads me to the cedar's gloom.

Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze!
What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay?
Once, me alone thou wish'd to please,
And with me only thou wouldst stray.

But, while thy long delay I mourn,
And chide the sweet shades for their guile,
Thou may'st be true, and they forlorn,
And fairy favours court thy smile.

The tiny queen of fairy-land,
Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far,
To bring, or ere the night-watch stand,
Rich essence for her shadowy car:

Perchance her acorn-cups to fill
With nectar from the Indian rose,
Or gather, near some haunted rill,
May-dews, that lull to sleep Love's woes:

Or o'er the mountains, bade thee fly,
To tell her fairy love to speed,
When ev'ning steals upon the sky,
To dance along the twilight mead.

But now I see thee sailing low,
Gay as the brightest flow'rs of spring,
Thy coat of blue and jet I know,
And well thy gold and purple wing.

Borne on the gale, thou com'st to me;
O! welcome, welcome to my home!
In lily's cell we'll live in glee,
Together o'er the mountains roam!

STANZAS.

[O'er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled]

O'er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled,
And once the poet rais'd his deathless strain,
O'er Ilion's plains a weary driver led
His stately camels: For the ruin'd fane

Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,
For now the red cloud faded in the west,
And twilight o'er the silent landscape drew
Her deep'ning veil; eastward his course he prest:

There, on the grey horizon's glimm'ring bound,
Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,
And wand'ring shepherds now a shelter found
Within those walls, that rang with princes joy!

Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass'd,
Then, from his camels heav'd the heavy load;
Partook with them the simple, cool, repast,
And, in short vesper, gave himself to God.

From distant lands with merchandise he came,
His all of wealth his patient servants bore;
Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim
To reach, again, his happy cottage door;

For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;
Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour.
Ev'n now warm tears to expectation swell,
As fancy o'er his mind extends her pow'r.

A death-like stillness reign'd, where once the song,
The song of heroes, wak'd the midnight air,
Save, when a solemn murmur roll'd along,
That seem'd to say—“For future worlds prepare.”

For Time's imperious voice was frequent heard
Shaking the marble temple to its fall,
(By hands he long had conquer'd, vainly rear'd)
And distant ruins answer'd to his call.

While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,
Beneath him, all his store of wealth was pil'd;
And here, his cruise and empty wallet lay,
And there, the flute that cheer'd him in the wild.

The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,
For o'er the waste, at eve, he watch'd his train;
Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?
Who calls on him for mercy—calls in vain!

A poison'd poignard in his belt he wore,
A crescent sword depended at his side,
The deathful quiver at his back he bore,
And infants—at his very look had died!

The moon's cold beam athwart the temple fell,
And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;
But soft!—a startled camel shook his bell,
Then stretch'd his limbs, and rear'd his drowsy head.

Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter'd high!
Swift from his couch he sprung, and 'scap'd the blow;
When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,
That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.

He groan'd, he died! from forth a column'd gate
A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,
Who, as he watch'd his folded flock star-late,
Had mark'd the robber steal where Hamet slept.

He fear'd his own, and sav'd a stranger's life!
Poor Hamet clasp'd him to his grateful heart;
Then, rous'd his camels for the dusty strife,
And, with the shepherd, hasten'd to depart.

And now, Aurora breathes her fresh'ning gale,
And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;
And now, the sun, from under twilight's veil,
Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.

Wide o'er the level plains, his slanting beams
Dart their long lines on Ilion's tower'd scite;
The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,
And old Scamander winds his waves in light.

All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,
And merry beats fond Hamet's heart, for he,
E'er the dim ev'ning steals upon the day,
His children, wife and happy home shall see.

SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR.

Last of the Hours, that track the fading Day,
I move along the realms of twilight air,
And hear, remote, the choral song decay
Of sister-nymphs, who dance around my car.

Then, as I follow through the azure void,
His partial splendour from my straining eye
Sinks in the depths of space; my only guide
His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;

Save that sweet ling'ring strain of gayer Hours!
Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes,
While mortals on the green earth own its pow'rs,
As downward on the ev'ning gale it floats.

When fades along the west the Sun's last beam
As, weary, to the nether world he goes,
And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam,
And slumb'ring ocean faint and fainter glows;

Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal,
And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews,
And ev'ry fever'd herb and flow'ret heal,
And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.

Where'er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns;
O'er all the scene the dusky tints I send,
That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains
And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.

Wide o'er the world I waft the fresh'ning wind,
Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale,
In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind
Of him who loves my lonely steps to hail.

His tender oaten reed I watch to hear,
Stealing its sweetness o'er some plaining rill,
Or soothing ocean's wave, when storms are near,
Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!

I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light:
When, from their blossom'd beds, they slily peep,
And spy my pale star, leading on the night,—
Forth to their games and revelry they leap;

Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air,
That with them slumber'd in the flow'ret's cell;
Then to the shores and moon-light brooks repair,
'Till the high larks their matin carol swell.

The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper'd shade,
With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance,
On river margin of some bow'ry glade,
And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance.—

But swift I pass, and distant regions trace,
For moon-beams silver all the eastern cloud,
And Day's last crimson vestige fades apace;
Down the steep west I fly from Midnight's shroud.

SHIPWRECK.

'Tis solemn midnight! On this lonely steep,
Beneath this watch-tow'r's desolated wall,
Where mystic shapes the wanderer appal,
I rest; and view below the desert deep.
As through tempestuous clouds the moon's cold light
Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night
With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,
And sullen roar the surges far below.
In the still pauses of the gust I hear
The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,
And oft among the clouds their forms appear.
But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale
And in the distant ray what glimmering sail
Bends to the storm?—Now sinks the note of fear!
Ah! wretched mariners! no more shall day
Unclose his cheering eye to light you on your way!

TO AUTUMN.

Sweet Autumn! how the melancholy grace
Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind!
Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace
Each lonely image of the pensive mind!
Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends—long lost! around me rise,
And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!
That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize—
Sweet as the gradual tint that paints thy year!
Thy farewell smile, with fond regret, I view,
Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the woods;
Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue,
While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding floods,

Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's white sails
Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.
But now, e'en now!—the partial vision fails,
And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!
Emblem of life!—Thus checquer'd is its plan,
Thus joy succeeds to grief—thus smiles the varied man!

TO THE BAT.

From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare,
Thou shroud'st thee in the ruin's ivy'd tow'r,
Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r,
Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare,
Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care!
But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour,
When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r,
Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air,
Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue,
In many a wanton round, elastic, gay,
Thou flitt'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's way,
As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew.
From Indian isles thou com'st, with Summer's car,
Twilight thy love—thy guide her beaming star!

TO THE WINDS.

Viewless, through heavn's vast vault, your course ye steer,
Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!
Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low,
'Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,
And, awful! seems to say—some God is near!
I love to list' your midnight voices float
In the dread storm that o'er the ocean rolls,
And, while their charm the angry wave controuls,
Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote:
Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,—
The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,—
A sweeter note, oft swells, while sleeps the gale!

But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is o'er:
Solemn and slow ye rise upon the air,
Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear;
And the faint-warbled dirge—is heard no more!

Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!—
The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!
Bear not the crash of bark far on the main;
Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,—
The crew's dread chorus sinking into death!
Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs—I ask alone,
As, 'rapt, I climb these dark romantic steeps—
The elemental war, the billow's moan:
I ask the still, sweet tear, that list'ning Fancy weeps.

TO MELANCHOLY.

Spirit of love and sorrow—hail!
Thy solemn voice from far I hear,
Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale:
Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!

O! at this still, this lonely hour,
Thine own sweet hour of closing day,
Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r
Shall call up Fancy to obey.

To paint the wild romantic dream,
That meets the poet's musing eye,
As on the bank of shadowy stream,
He breathes to her the fervid sigh.

O lonely spirit! let thy song
Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;
The minster's moon-light aisles along,
Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.

I hear their dirges faintly swell!
Then, sink at once in silence drear;
While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell,
Dimly their gliding forms appear!

Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,
Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
As the cold moon, with trembling eye,
Darts her long beams the leaves between.

Lead to the mountain's dusky head,
Where, far below, in shade profound,
Wide forests, plains, and hamlets, spread,
And sad the chimes of vesper sound.

Or guide me where the dashing oar
Just breaks the stillness of the vale;
As slow it tracks the winding shore,
To meet the ocean's distant sail:

To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,
With measur'd surges, loud and deep;
Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
And wild the winds of autumn sweep:

There pause at midnight's spectred hour,
And list the long-resounding gale:
And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r,
O'er foaming seas and distant sail.

END.