To make thy disk its ample page, And write my thoughts, my wishes there; And all my heart and soul would send To turn to rapture all we knew! When, mingling lore and laugh together, We learned the book on pleasure's bowl, And turned 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 unfurled That wafts me to the western world! And yet 'twas time.-In youthful days, To cool the season's burning rays, 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, Even now delusive hope will steal Pursues the murmurers of the deep, 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 The slumber of the silent tides ! And see the looks, the melting smiles, And see the blushing cheek it shades, And breathe them with thy graceful tone, Would make the coldest nymph his own! But, hark!-the boatswain's pipings tell Is one whose heart remembers thee! STANZAS. Θυμος δε ποτ' ἐμος με προσφωνει ταδε Γίνωσκε τανθρωπεια μη σεβειν ἀγαν. Eschyl. Fragment. A BEAM of tranquillity smiled in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no more, Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er! * 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. Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour, Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead, How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire, The pearl of the soul may be melted away! And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame, I might give back the gem I had borrowed from Him! The thought was ecstatic! I felt as if Heaven Had already the wreath of eternity shown; As if, passion all chastened and error forgiven, My heart had begun to be purely its own! I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky, Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more : "Oh! thus," I exclaimed, can a heavenly eye Shed light on the soul that was darkened before!" THE TELL-TALE LYRE. I'VE heard there was in ancient days 'Twas played on by the gentlest sighs, And to their breath it breathed again In such entrancing melodies As ear had never drunk till then! Not harmony's serenest touch So stilly could the notes prolong; Or if the sigh, serene and light, Was but the breath of fancied woes, And oh when lovers talked alone, If, mid their bliss the Lyre was near, It made their murmurs all its own, And echoed notes that heaven might hear! 'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole It chanced that, in the fairy bower Where they had found their sweetest shed, This Lyre, of strange and magic power, Hung gently whispering o'er their head. And while, with eyes of mingling fire, And while the melting words she breathed Alas! their hearts but little thought, So mingled with its tuneful soul Were all their tender murmurs grown That other sighs unanswered stole, Nor changed the sweet, the treasured tone. Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung To every passing lip that sighed ; The secrets of thy gentle tongue The fatal Lyre, by envy's hand Hung high amid the breezy groves, Yet oh!-not many a suffering hour, 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 lov'st to hear The luckless Lyre's remembered songs! Still do your happy souls attune The notes it learned, 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 As if thy frame were formed to rise, But, when I see that wing, so bright, Cast every lingering stain away, TO MISS MOORE. FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803. IN days, my Kate, when life was new. When, lulled with innocence and you, |