To make thy disk its ample page,

And write my thoughts, my wishes there;
How many a friend, whose careless eye
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,

Should smile, upon thy orb to meet
The recollection, kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,
The promise never to forget,

And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-loved, distant friend!
O 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 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,
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 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 lift 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' ἐμος

με προσφώνει ταδε

Γίνωσκε τανθρωπεια μη σεβειν άγαν.

Eschyl. 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!

*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 I!

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 tone.

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 flattering pride is o'er ;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
But erring man must 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 fix 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,