And, o'er its calm the vessel glides
Gently, as if it feared 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 list each pious veil,

And see the blushing cheek it shades,
Oh! I should have full many a tale

To tell of young Azorian maids.
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 !
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!
But, hark !-the boatswain's pipings tell
'Tis time to bid my dream farewell:
Eight bells :--the middle watch is set ;
Good night, my Strangford !-ne'er forget
That, far beyond the western sea
Is one whose heart remembers thee!

!

STANZAS. θυμος δε ποτ' εμος

με προσφωνει ταδε:
Γινωσκε τανθρωπεια μη σεβειν αγαν.

Æschyl. Fragment.
A BEAM of tranquillity smiled in the west,

The storms of the morning pursued us no more,
And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest,

Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er!

1

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, And the spirit becalmed but remembered their power,

As the billow the force of the gale that was fled!
I thought of the days when to pleasure alone

My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known

Was pity for those who were wiser than 1!
I felt how the pure intellectual fire

In luxury loses its heavenly ray;
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,

That pleasure no more might its purity dim ;
And that sullied but little, or brightly the same,

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

A Lyre of most melodious spell;
'Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays,

If half be true that legends tell.
'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 ;
They were not heavenly song so much

As they were dreams of heavenly song!
If sad the heart whose murmuring air

Along the chords in languor stole,
The soothings it awakened there

Were eloquence from pity's soul!
Or if the sigh, serene and light,

Was but the breath of fancied woes,
The string, that felt its airy flight,

Soon whispered it to kind repose!

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! There was a nymph who long had loved,

But dared not tell the world how well : The shades where she at evening roved

Alone could know, alone could tell. 'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole

So oft, to make the dear one blest, Whom love had given her virgin soul,

And nature soon gave all the rest ! 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,

They listened to each other's vow,
The youth full oft would make the Lyre

A pillow for his angel's brow.
And while the melting words she breathed

On all its echoes wantoned round,
Her hair, amid the strings enwreathed,

Through golden mazes charmed the sound ! Alas! their hearts but little thought,

While thus entranced they listening lay, That every sound the Lyre was taught

Should linger long, and long betray! So mingled with its tuneful soul

Were all their tender murmurs grown That other sighs unanswered stole,

Nor changed the sweet, the treasured tore. Unhappy nymph ! thy name was sung

To every passing lip that sighed; The secrets of thy gentle tongue

On every ear in murmurs died ! The fatal Lyre, by envy's hand

Hung high amid the breezy groves, To every wanton gale that fanned

Betrayed the mystery of your loves ! 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 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 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 formed 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 ! But, when I see that wing, so bright, Grow languid with a moment's flight, Attempt the paths of air in vain, And sink into the waves again; Alas! the Nattering pride is o'er ; Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar, But erring man mast blush to think, Like thee, again, the soul may sink ! O Virtue ! when thy clime I seek, Let not my spirit's flight be weak: Let me not, like this feeble thing, With brine still dropping from its wing, Just sparkle in the solar glow, And plunge again to depths below; But, when I leave the grosser throng With whom my soul hath dwelt so long: Let me, in that aspiring day, Cast every lingering stain away, And, panting for thy purer air, Fly up at once and six me there !

TO MISS MOORE.
FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.

IN days, my Kate, when life was new
When, lulled with innocence and you,

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 blessed them into pure repose ! Then, haply if a weck, a day, I lingered from your arms away, How long the little absence seemed ! How bright the look of welcome beamed, As mute you heard, with eager smile, My tales of all that passed 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 e'en your scal can reach mine eye; And oh ! e'en 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 filled The leaf with sweetness may be chilled ! But hence that gloomy thought ! at last, Beloved Kate! the waves are past : 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 hurled The systems of the ancient world !

a

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 ren.embered pride!
While peace, with sunny cheeks of toil,

P