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THE GENIUS OF HARMONY.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

Ad harmoniam canere mundum.

Cicero, de Nat. Deor. lib. iii,

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TIERE lies a shell beneath the waves,
In many a hollow winding wreathed,

Such as of old
Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed ,

This magic shell
From the white bosom of a Siren sell,
As once she wandered by the tide that laves
Sicilia's sands of gold.

It bears,
Upon its shining side, the mystic notes

Of those entrancing airs
The genii of the deep were wont to swell,
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled !
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!

And thou shalt own
That, through the circle of creation's zone,
Where matter darkles or where spirit beams;

From the pellucid tides that whirl
The planets through their maze of song,
To the small rill that weeps along
Murmuring o'er beds of pearl ;

From the rich sigh
Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,
To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields

On Afric's burning fields;
Oh! thou shalt own this universe divine

Is mine!
That I respire in all and all in me,
One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony!

Welcome, welcome, mystic shell !
Many a star has ceased to burn,

Many a tear has Saturn's urn
O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,

Since thy aërial spell

Hath in the waters slept !
With the bright treasure, to my choral sky,

Where she who waked its early swell,

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I fly,

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The Siren, with a foot of fire,
Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre,

Or guides around the burning pole
The winged chariot of some biissful soul !

While thvu,
O son of earth! what dreams shall rise for thee!

Beneath Hispania's sun

Thou'lt see a streamlet run
Which I have warmed with dews of melodiy;

Listen !-when the night-wind dies
Down the still current, like a harp it sigh) !
Aliquid chori is every wave that fiis,
An airy piectrum every breeze that blows!

There, by that wondrous stream,

Go, lay thy languid brow,
And I will seni itie such a guilike dream,
Such-mortal! mortal! hast thou heard of him
Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre,

Sat on the chil Pangxan mount,

And, looking to the orient dim,
Watched the first flowing of that sacred fount

From which his soul hadi drunk its fire!
Oh! think what visions, in that lonely hour,

Stole o'er his musing breast !

What pious ecstacy
Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power

Whose seal upon this worth impressed
The various forms of bright divinity?

Or dost thou know what dreams I wove
"Mid the deep horror of that sent bower
Where the rapt Samian siept his holy slumbe:?

When, free
From every earthly chain,
From wreaths of pleasure ard from bonds of pain,

His spirit flew through fields alove,
Drank at the source of Nature's fontal numer,
And saw, in mystic choir, around him more
The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstreisy!
Such dreams, so heavenly bright,

I swear
By the great diadem that twines my hair.
And by the seven gems that sparkie there,

Mingling their beams
In a soft iris of harmonious licht,

O mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams !

TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ.,

OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA. *

From Bermuda, January, 1804.
Κεινη δ' ήνεμοεσσα και ατροπος, οία θ' άλιπληξ,
Αίθυιης και μαλλον επιδρομος ήεπερ ίπποις,
Ποντώ ένε στηρικται.

Callimach. Hymn, in Del. O. IL
Oh what a tempest whirled us hither ! +
Winds whose savage breath could wither
All the light and languid flowers
That bloom in Epicurus' bowers !
Yet think not, George, that fancy's charm
Forsook me in this rude alarm.
When close they reefed the timid sail,

When, every plank complaining loud,
We laboured in the midnight gale,

And e'en our haughty main-mast bowed !
The muse, in that unlovely hour,
Benignly brought her soothing power,
And, midst the war of waves and wind,
In songs elysian lapped my mind !
She opened, with her golden key,

The casket where my memory lays
Those little gems of poesy

Which time has saved from ancient days!
Take one of these, to Lais sung ;
I wrote it while my hammock swung,
As one might write a dissertation
Upon “suspended animation !”

SWEETLY you kiss, my Lais dear!
But, while you kiss, I feel a tear,
Bitter as those when lovers part,
In mystery from your eyelid start !
Sadly you lean your head to mino,
And round my neck in silence twine,

* This gentleman is attached to the British consulate at Norfolk. His talents are worthy of a much higher sphere; but the excellent dispositions of the family with whom he resides, and the cordial repose he enjoys amongst some of the kindest hearts in the world, should be almost enough to atone to him for the worst caprices of fortune. The consul himself, Colonel Hamilton, is one among the very few instances of a man ardently loyal to his king, and yet beLoved by the Americans. His house is the very temple of hospitality; and I sincerely pity the heart of that stranger who, warm from the welcome of such a board, and with the taste of such Madeira still upon his lips, “col dolce in bocca," could sit down to write a libel on his host in the true spirit of a modern philosophist. - See the Travels of the Duc de la Rochefoucault Liancourt, vol. ii.

† We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, during three of which we were forced to lay-to in a gale of wind.

Your hair along my bosom spread,
All humid with the tears you shed !
Have I not kissed those lids of snow?
Yet still, my love, like founts they flow,
Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet-
Why is it thus ? do tell me, sweet !
Ah, Lais! are my bodings right?
Am I to lose you? is to-night
Our last-go, false to heaven and me!
Your very tears are treachery.

Such, while in air I floating hung,

Such was the strain, Morgante mio! The muse and I together sung,

With Boreas to make out the trio.

But, bless the little fairy isle!

How sweetly, after all our ills, We saw the dewy morning smile

Serenely o'er its fragrant hills ! And felt the pure, elastic flow Of airs that round this Eden blow, With honey freshness, caught by stealth, Warm from the very lips of health !

Oh! could you view the scenery dear

That now beneath my window lies, You'd think that Nature lavished here

Her purest wave, her softest skies, To make a heaven for love to sigh in, For bards to live and saints to die in! Close to my wooded bank below,

In glassy calm the waters sleep, And to the sun-beam proudly show

The coral rocks they love to steep! The fainting breeze of morning fails.

The drowsy boat moves slowly past,
And I can almost touch its sails

That languish idly round the mast.
The sun has now profusely given
The flashes of a noontide heaven,
And, as the wave reflects his beams,
Another heaven its surface seems!
Blue light and clouds of silvery tears

So pictured o'er the waters lie
That every languid bark appears

To fleet along a burning sky!

Oh! for the boat the angel gave

To him who, in his heavenward flight,
Sailed, o'er the sun's ethereal wave,

To planet-isles of odorous light !
Sweet Venus, what a clime he found
Within thy orb's ambrosial round !
There spring the breezes, rich and warm,

That pant around thy twilight car;
There angels dwell, so pure of form

That each appears a living star !
These are the sprites, O radiant queen !

Thou send'st so often to the bed
Of her I love, with spell unseen,

Thy planet's brightening balm to shed ;
To make the eye's enchantment clearer,

To give the cheek one rosebud more,
And bid that flushing lip be dearer

Which had been oh! too dear before!
But, whither means the muse to roam ?
Tis time to call the wanderer home.
Who could have ever thought to search her
Up in the clouds with Father Kircher?
So, health and love to all your mansion !

Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom in.
The flow of heart, the soul's expansion,

Mirth and song your board illumine!
Fare you well-remember too,

When cups are flowing to the brim,
That here is one who drinks to you,

And oh !—as warmly drink to him.

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No-Lady! Lady! keep the ring;

Oh! think, how many a future year. Of placid smile and downy wing,

May sleep within its holy sphere ! Do not disturb their tranquil dream;

Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed, Yet Heaven will shed a soothing beam,

To bliss the bond itself hath formed. But then, that eye, that burning eye !

Oh! it doth ask, with magic power, If Heaven can ever bless the tie

Where love inwreathes no genial flower ! Away, away, bewildering look!

Or all the boast of virtue's o'er ; Go-hie thee to the sage's book,

And learn from him to feel no more !

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