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THE COMPLETE POEMS OF SIR THOMAS MOORE

COLLECTED BY HIMSELF

WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES

WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI

THOMAS MOORE

Thomas Moore was born in Dublin on the 28th of May 1780. Both his parents were Roman-Catholics; and he was, as a matter of course, brought up in the same religion, and adhered to it—not perhaps with any extreme zeal—throughout his life. His father was a decent tradesman, a grocer and spirit-retailer—or "spirit-grocer," as the business is termed in Ireland. Thomas received his schooling from Mr. Samuel Whyte, who had been Sheridan's first preceptor, a man of more than average literary culture. He encouraged a taste for acting among the boys: and Moore, naturally intelligent and lively, became a favorite with his master, and a leader in the dramatic recreations.

His aptitude for verse appeared at an early age. In 1790 he composed an epilogue to a piece acted at the house of Lady Borrows, in Dublin; and in his fourteenth year he wrote a sonnet to Mr. Whyte, which was published in a Dublin magazine.

Like other Irish Roman-Catholics, galled by the hard and stiff collar of Protestant ascendancy, the parents of Thomas Moore hailed the French Revolution, and the prospects which it seemed to offer of some reflex ameliorations. In 1792 the lad was taken by his father to a dinner in honor of the Revolution; and he was soon launched upon a current of ideas and associations which might have conducted a person of more self-oblivious patriotism to the scaffold on which perished the friend of his opening manhood, Robert Emmet. Trinity College, Dublin, having been opened to Catholics by the Irish Parliament in 1793, Moore was entered there as a student in the succeeding year. He became more proficient in French and Italian than in the classic languages, and showed no turn for Latin verses. Eventually, his political proclivities, and intimacy with many of the chiefs of opposition, drew down upon him (after various interrogations, in which he honorably refused to implicate his friends) a severe admonition from the University authorities; but he had not joined in any distinctly rebellious act and no more formidable results ensued to him.

In 1793 Moore published in the Anthologia Hibernica two pieces of verse; and his budding talents became so far known as to earn him the proud eminence of Laureate to the Gastronomic Club of Dalkey, near Dublin, in 1794. Through his acquaintance with Emmet, he joined the Oratorical Society, and afterwards the more important Historical Society; and he published An Ode on Nothing, with Notes, by Trismegistus Rustifucius, D. D., which won a party success. About the same time he wrote articles for The Press, a paper founded towards the end of 1797 by O'Connor, Addis, Emmet, and others. He graduated at Trinity College in November, 1799.

The bar was the career which his parents, and especially his mother, wished Thomas to pursue; neither of them had much faith in poetry or literature as a resource for his subsistence. Accordingly, in 1799, he crossed over into England, and studied in the Middle Temple; and he was afterwards called to the bar, but literary pursuits withheld him from practicing. He had brought with him from Ireland his translations from Anacreon; and published these by subscription in 1800, dedicated to the Prince Regent (then the illusory hope of political reformers), with no inconsiderable success. Lord Moira, Lady Donegal, and other leaders of fashionable society, took him up with friendly warmth, and he soon found himself a well-accepted guest in the highest circles in London. No clever young fellow—without any advantage of birth or of person, and with intellectual attractions which seem to posterity to be of a rather middling kind—ever won his way more easily or more cheaply into that paradise of mean ambitions, the beau monde. Moore has not escaped the stigma which attaches to almost all men who thus succeeded under the like conditions—that of tuft-hunting and lowering compliances. He would be a bold man who should affirm that there was absolutely no sort of ground for the charge; or that Moore—fêted at Holland House, and hovered-round by the fashionable of both sexes, the men picking up his witticisms, and the women languishing over his songs—was capable of the same sturdy self-reliance and simple adhesion to principle which might possibly have been in him, and forthcoming from him, under different conditions. Who shall touch pitch and not be defiled,—who treacle, and not be sweetened? At the same time, it is easy to carry charges of this kind too far, and not always through motives the purest and most exalted. It may be said without unfairness on either side that the sort of talents which Moore possessed brought him naturally into the society which he frequented; that very possibly the world has got quite as much out of him by that development of his faculties as by any other which they could have been likely to receive; and that he repaid patronage in the coin of amusement and of bland lenitives, rather than in that of obsequious adulation. For we are not required nor permitted to suppose that there was the stuff of a hero in "little Tom Moore;" or that the lapdog of the drawing-room would under any circumstances have been the wolf-hound of the public sheepfold. In the drawing-room he is a sleeker lapdog, and lies upon more and choicelier-clothed laps than he would in "the two-pair back;" and that is about all that needs to be said or speculated in such a case. As a matter of fact, the demeanor of Moore among the socially great seems to have been that of a man who respected his company, without failing to respect himself also—any ill-natured caviling or ready-made imputations to the contrary notwithstanding.

In 1802 Moore produced his first volume of original verse, the Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little (an allusion to the author's remarkably small stature), for which he received £60. There are in this volume some erotic improprieties, not of a very serious kind either in intention or in harmfulness, which Moore regretted in later years. Next year Lord Moira procured him the post of Registrar to the Admiralty Court of Bermuda; he embarked on the 25th of September, and reached his destination in January 1804. This work did not suit him much better than the business of the bar; in March he withdrew from personal discharge of the duties: and, leaving a substitute in his place, he made a tour in the United States and Canada. He was presented to Jefferson, and felt impressed by his republican simplicity. Such a quality, however, was not in Moore's line; and nothing perhaps shows the essential smallness of his nature more clearly than the fact that his visit to the United States, in their giant infancy, produced in him no glow of admiration or aspiration, but only a recrudescence of the commonest prejudices—the itch for picking little holes, the petty joy of reporting them, and the puny self-pluming upon fancied or factitious superiorities. If the washy liberal patriotism of Moore's very early years had any vitality at all, such as would have qualified it for a harder struggle than jeering at the Holy Alliance, and singing after-dinner songs of national sentimentalism to the applause of Whig lords and ladies, this American experience may beheld to have been its death-blow. He now saw republicans face to face; and found that they were not for him, nor he for them. He returned to England in 1806; and soon afterwards published his Odes and Epistles, comprising many remarks, faithfully expressive of his perceptions, on American society and manners.

The volume was tartly criticised in the Edinburgh Review by Jeffrey, who made some rather severe comments upon the improprieties chargeable to Moore's early writings. The consequence was a challenge, and what would have been a duel at Chalk Farm, but for unloaded pistols and police interference. This fiasco soon led to an amicable understanding between Moore and Jeffrey; and a few years later, about the end of 1811, to a friendship of closer intimacy between the Irish songster and his great poetic contemporary Lord Byron. His lordship, in his youthful satire of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, had made fun of the unbloody duel. This Moore resented, not so much as a mere matter of ridicule as because it involved an ignoring or a denial of a counter-statement of the matter put into print by himself. He accordingly wrote a letter to Byron on the 1st of January 1810, calculated to lead to further hostilities. But, as the noble poet had then already for some months left England for his prolonged tour on the Continent, the missive did not reach him; and a little epistolary skirmishing, after his return in the following year, terminated in a hearty reconciliation, and a very intimate cordiality, almost deserving of the lofty name of friendship, on both sides.

Re-settled in London, and re-quartered upon the pleasant places of fashion, Moore was once more a favorite at Holland House, Lansdowne House, and Donington House, the residence of Lord Moira. His lordship obtained a comfortable post to soothe the declining years of Moore's father, and held out to the poet himself the prospect—which was not however realized—of another snug berth for his own occupancy. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland never received the benefit of the Irish patriot's services in any public capacity at home—only through the hands of a defaulting deputy in Bermuda: it did, however, at length give him the money without the official money's-worth, for in 1835, under Lord Melbourne's ministry, an annual literary pension of £300 was bestowed upon the then elderly poet. Nor can it be said that Moore's worth to his party, whether we regard him as political sharpshooter or as national lyrist, deserved a less recognition from the Whigs: he had at one time, with creditable independence, refused to be indebted to the Tories for an appointment. Some obloquy has at times been cast upon him on account of his sarcasms against the Prince Regent, which, however well merited on public grounds, have been held to come with an ill grace from the man whose first literary effort, the Anacreon, had been published under the auspices of his Royal Highness as dedicatee, no doubt a practical obligation of some moment to the writer. It does not appear, however, that the obligation went much beyond this simple acceptance of the dedication: Moore himself declared that the Regent's further civilities had consisted simply in asking him twice to dinner, and admitting him, in 1811, to a fête in honor of the regency.

The life of Moore for several years ensuing is one of literary success and social brilliancy, varied by his marrying in 1811, Miss Bessy Dyke, a lady who made an excellent and devoted wife, and to whom he was very affectionately attached, although the attractions and amenities of the fashionable world caused from time to time considerable inroads upon his domesticity. After a while, he removed from London, with his wife and young family, to Mayfield Cottage, near Ashbourne, Derbyshire—a somewhat lonely site. His Irish Melodies, the work by which he will continue best known, had their origin in 1797, when his attention was drawn to a publication named Bunting's Irish Melodies, for which he occasionally wrote the words. In 1807 he entered into a definite agreement with Mr. Power on this subject, in combination with Sir J. Stevenson, who undertook to compose the accompaniments. The work was prolonged up to the year 1834; and contributed very materially to Moore's comfort in money matters and his general prominence—as his own singing of the Melodies in good society kept up his sentimental and patriotic prestige, and his personal lionizing, in a remarkable degree. He played on the piano, and sang with taste, though in a style resembling recitative, and not with any great power of voice: in speaking, his voice had a certain tendency to hoarseness, but its quality became flute-like in singing. In 1811 he made another essay in the musical province; writing, at the request of the manager of the Lyceum Theatre, an operetta named M.P., or the Bluestocking. It was the reverse of a stage-success; and Moore, in collecting his poems, excluded this work, save as regards some of the songs comprised in it. In 1808 had appeared anonymously, the poems of Intolerance and Corruption, followed in 1809 by The Sceptic. Intercepted Letters, or The Twopenny Postbag, by Thomas Brown the Younger, came out in 1812: it was a huge success, and very intelligibly such, going through fourteen editions in one year. In the same year the project of writing an oriental poem—a class of work greatly in vogue now that Byron was inventing Giaours and Corsairs—was seriously entertained by Moore. This project took shape in Lalla Rookh, written chiefly at Mayfield Cottage—a performance for which Mr. Longman the publisher paid the extremely large sum of £3150 in advance: its publication hung over till 1817. The poem has been translated into all sorts of languages, including Persian, and is said to have found many admirers among its oriental readers. Whatever may be thought of its poetic merits—and I for one disclaim any scintilla of enthusiasm—or of its power in vitalizing the disjecta membra of orientalism, the stock-in-trade of the Asiatic curiosity-shop, there is no doubt that Moore worked very conscientiously upon this undertaking: he read up to any extent,—wrote, talked, and perhaps thought, Islamically—and he trips up his reader with some allusion verse after verse, tumbling him to the bottom of the page, with its quagmire of explanatory footnotes. In 1815 appeared the National Airs; in 1816, Sacred Songs, Duets, and Trios, the music composed and selected by Stevenson and Moore; in 1818, The Fudge Family in Paris, again a great hit. This work was composed in Paris, which capital Moore had been visiting in company with his friend Samuel Rogers the poet.

The easily earned money and easily discharged duties of the appointment in Bermuda began now to weigh heavy on Moore. Defalcations of his deputy, to the extent of £6000, were discovered, for which the nominal holder of the post was liable. Moore declined offers of assistance; and, pending a legal decision on the matter, he had found it apposite to revisit the Continent. In France, Lord John (the late Earl) Russell was his travelling companion: they went on together through Switzerland, and parted at Milan. Moore then, on the 8th of October 1819, joined in Venice his friend Byron, who had been absent from England since 1816. The poets met in the best of humor, and on terms of hearty good-fellowship—Moore staying with Byron for five or six days. On taking leave of him, Byron presented the Irish lyrist with the MS. of his autobiographical memoirs stipulating that they should not be published till after the donor's death: at a later date he became anxious that they should remain wholly unpublished. Moore sold the MS. in 1831 to Murray for £2100, after some negotiations with Longman, and consigned it to the publisher's hands. In 1824 the news arrived of Byron's death. Mr. (afterwards Sir Wilmot) Horton on the part of Lady Byron, Mr. Luttrell on that of Moore, Colonel Doyle on that of Mrs. Leigh, Lord Byron's half-sister, and Mr. Hobhouse (afterwards Lord Broughton) as a friend and executor of the deceased poet, consulted on the subject. Hobhouse was strong in urging the suppression of the Memoirs. The result was that Murray, setting aside considerations of profit, burned the MS. (some principal portions of which nevertheless exist in print, in other forms of publication); and Moore immediately afterwards, also in a disinterested spirit, repaid him the purchase-money of £2100. It was quite fair that Moore should be reimbursed this large sum by some of the persons in whose behoof he had made the sacrifice, this was not neglected.

To resume. Bidding adieu to Byron at Venice, Moore went on to Rome with the sculptor Chantrey and the portrait-painter Jackson. His tour supplied the materials for the Rhymes on the Road, published, as being extracted from the journal of a travelling member of the Pococurante Society, in 1820, along with the Fables for the Holy Alliance. Lawrence, Turner, and Eastlake, were also much with Moore in Rome: and here he made acquaintance with Canova. Hence he returned to Paris, and made that city his home up to 1822, expecting the outcome of the Bermuda affair. He also resided partly at Butte Goaslin, near Sèvres, with a rich and hospitable Spanish family named Villamil. The debt of £6000 was eventually reduced to £750: both the Marquis of Lansdowne and Lord John Russell pressed Moore with their friendly offers, and the advance which he at last accepted was soon repaid out of the profits of the Loves of the Angels—which poem, chiefly written in Paris, was published in 1823. The prose tale of The Epicurean was composed about the same time, but did not issue from the press till 1827: the Memoirs of Captain Rock in 1824. He had been under an engagement to a bookseller to write a Life of Sheridan. During his stay in France the want of documents withheld him from proceeding with this work: but he ultimately took it up, and brought it out in 1825. It was not availed to give Moore any reputation as a biographer, though the reader in search of amusement will pick out of it something to suit him. George the Fourth is credited with having made a neat bon mot upon this book. Some one having remarked to him that "Moore had been murdering Sheridan,"— "No," replied his sacred majesty, "but he has certainly attempted his life." A later biographical performance, published in 1830, and one of more enduring interest to posterity, was the Life of Byron. This is a very fascinating book; but more—which is indeed a matter of course—in virtue of the lavish amount of Byron's own writing which it embodies than, on account of the Memoir-compiler's doings. However, there is a considerable share of good feeling in the book, as well as matter of permanent value from the personal knowledge that Moore had of Byron; and the avoidance of "posing" and of dealing with the subject for purposes of effect, in the case of a man whose career and genius lent themselves so insidiously to such a treatment, is highly creditable to the biographer's good sense and taste. The Life of Byron succeeded, in the list of Moore's writings, a History of Ireland, contributed in 1827 to Lardner's Cyclopaedia, and the Travels of an Irishman in Search of a Religion, published in the same year: and was followed by a Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, issued in 1881. This, supplemented by some minor productions, closes the sufficiently long list of writings of an industrious literary life.

In his latter years Moore resided at Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes in Wiltshire, Where he was near the refined social circle of Lord Lansdowne at Bowood, as well as the lettered home of the Rev. Mr. Bowles at Bremhill. Domestic sorrows clouded his otherwise cheerful and comfortable retirement. One of his sons died in the French military service in Algeria; another of consumption in 1842. For some years before his own death, which occurred on the 25th of February 1853, his mental powers had collapsed. He sleeps in Bromham Cemetery, in the neighborhood of Sloperton.

Moore had a very fair share of learning, as well as steady application, greatly as he sacrificed to the graces of life, and especially of "good society." His face was not perhaps much more impressive in its contour than his diminutive figure. His eyes, however, were dark and fine; his forehead bony, and with what a phrenologist would recognize as large bumps of wit; the mouth pleasingly dimpled. His manner and talk were bright, abounding rather in lively anecdote and point than in wit and humor, strictly so called. To term him amiable according to any standard, and estimable too as men of an unheroic fibre go, is no more than his due.

No doubt the world has already seen the most brilliant days of Moore's poetry. Its fascinations are manifestly of the more temporary sort: partly through fleetingness of subject-matter and evanescence of allusion (as in the clever and still readable satirical poems); partly through the aroma of sentimental patriotism, hardly strong enough in stamina to make the compositions national, or to maintain their high level of popularity after the lyrist himself has long been at rest; partly through the essentially commonplace sources and forms of inspiration which belong to his more elaborate and ambitious works. No poetical reader of the present day is the poorer for knowing absolutely nothing of Lalla Rookh or the Loves of the Angels. What then will be the hold or the claim of these writings upon a reader of the twenty-first century? If we expect the satirical compositions, choice in a different way, the best things of Moore are to be sought in the Irish Melodies, to which a considerable share of merit, and of apposite merit, is not to be denied: yet even here what deserts around the oases, and the oases themselves how soon exhaustible and forgettable! There are but few thoroughly beautiful and touching lines in the whole of Moore's poetry. Here is one—

"Come rest in this bosom, mine own stricken deer."

A great deal has been said upon the overpowering "lusciousness" of his poetry, and the magical "melody" of his verse: most of this is futile. There is in the former as much of fadeur as of lusciousness; and a certain tripping or trotting exactitude, not less fully reducible to the test of scansion than of a well-attuned ear, is but a rudimentary form of melody—while of harmony or rhythmic volume of sound Moore is as decisively destitute as any correct versifier can well be. No clearer proof of the incapacity of the mass of critics and readers to appreciate the calibre of poetical work in point of musical and general execution could be given than the fact that Moore has always with them passed, and still passes, for an eminently melodious poet. What then remains? Chiefly this. In one class of writing, liveliness of witty banter, along with neatness; and, in the other and ostensibly more permanent class, elegance, also along with neatness. Reduce these qualities to one denomination, and we come to something that may be called "Propriety": a sufficiently disastrous "raw material" for the purposes of a poet, and by no means loftily to be praised or admired even when regarded as the outer investiture of a nobler poetic something within. But let desert of every kind have its place, and welcome. In the cosmical diapason and august orchestra of poetry, Tom Moore's little Pan's-pipe can at odd moments be heard, and interjects an appreciable and rightly-combined twiddle or two. To be gratified with these at the instant is no more than the instrument justifies, and the executant claims: to think much about them when the organ is pealing or the violin plaining (with a Shelley performing on the first, or a Mrs. Browning on the second), or to be on the watch for their recurrences, would be equally superfluous and weak-minded.

CONTENTS

Advertisement.
After the Battle.
Alarming Intelligence.
Alciphron: a Fragment.
Letter I. From Alciphron at Alexandria to Cleon at Athens.
      II. From the Same to the Same.
     III. From the Same to the Same.
      IV. From Orcus, High Priest of Memphis, to Decius, the Praetorian
          Prefect.
All in the Family Way.
All that's Bright must Fade.
Almighty God.
Alone in Crowds to wander on.
Amatory Colloquy between Bank and Government.
Anacreon, Odes of.
        I. I saw the Smiling Bard of Pleasure.
       II. Give me the Harp of Epic Song.
      III. Listen to the Muse's Lyre.
       IV. Vulcan! hear Your Glorious Task.
        V. Sculptor, wouldst Thou glad my Soul.
       VI. As Late I sought the Spangled Bowers.
      VII. The Women tell Me Every Day.
     VIII. I care not for the Idle State.
       IX. I pray thee, by the Gods Above.
        X. How am I to punish Thee.
       XI. "Tell Me, Gentle Youth, I pray Thee".
      XII. They tell How Atys, Wild with Love.
     XIII. I will, I will, the Conflict's past.
      XIV. Count Me, on the Summer Trees.
       XV. Tell Me, Why, My Sweetest Dove.
      XVI. Thou, Whose Soft and Rosy Hues.
     XVII. And Now with All Thy Pencil's Truth.
    XVIII. Now the Star of Day is High.
      XIX. Here recline You, Gentle Maid.
       XX. One Day the Muses twined the Hands.
      XXI. Observe When Mother Earth is Dry.
     XXII. The Phrygian Rock, That braves the Storm.
    XXIII. I Often wish this Languid Lyre.
     XXIV. To All That breathe the Air of Heaven.
      XXV. Once in Each Revolving Year.
     XXVI. Thy Harp may sing of Troy's Alarms.
    XXVII. We read the Flying Courser's Name.
   XXVIII. As, by His Lemnian Forge's Flame.
     XXIX. Yes—Loving is a Painful Thrill.
      XXX. 'Twas in a Mocking Dream of Night.
     XXXI. Armed with Hyacinthine Rod.
    XXXII. Strew Me a Fragrant Bed of Leaves.
   XXXIII. 'Twas Noon of Night, When round the Pole.
    XXXIV. Oh Thou, of All Creation Blest.
     XXXV. Cupid Once upon a Bed.
    XXXVI. If Hoarded Gold possest the Power.
   XXXVII. 'Twas Night, and Many a Circling Bowl.
  XXXVIII. Let Us drain the Nectared Bowl.
    XXXIX. How I love the Festive Boy.
       XL. I know That Heaven hath sent Me Here.
      XLI. When Spring adorns the Dewy Scene.
     XLII. Yes, be the Glorious Revel Mine.
    XLIII. While Our Rosy Fillets shed.
     XLIV. Buds of Roses, Virgin Flowers.
      XLV. Within This Goblet Rich and Deep.
     XLVI. Behold, the Young, the Rosy Spring.
    XLVII. 'Tis True, My Fading Years decline.
   XLVIII. When My Thirsty Soul I steep.
     XLIX. When Bacchus, Jove's Immortal Boy.
        L. When Wine I quaff, before My Eyes.
       LI. Fly Not Thus My Brow of Snow.
      LII. Away, Away, Ye Men of Rules.
     LIII. When I beheld the Festive Train.
      LIV. Methinks, the Pictured Bull We see.
       LV. While We invoke the Wreathed Spring.
      LVI. He, Who instructs the Youthful Crew.
     LVII. Whose was the Artist Hand That Spread.
    LVIII. When Gold, as Fleet as Zephyr's Pinion.
      LIX. Ripened by the Solar Beam.
       LX. Awake to Life, My Sleeping Shell.
      LXI. Youth's Endearing Charms are fled.
     LXII. Fill Me, Boy, as Deep a Draught.
    LXIII. To Love, the Soft and Blooming Child.
     LXIV. Haste Thee, Nymph, Whose Well-aimed Spear.
      LXV. Like Some Wanton Filly sporting.
     LXVI. To Thee, the Queen of Nymphs Divine.
    LXVII. Rich in Bliss, I proudly scorn.
   LXVIII. Now Neptune's Month Our Sky deforms.
     LXIX. They wove the Lotus Band to deck.
      LXX. A Broken Cake, with Honey Sweet
     LXXI. With Twenty Chords My Lyre is hung.
    LXXII. Fare Thee Well, Perfidious Maid.
   LXXIII. Awhile I bloomed, a Happy Flower.
    LXXIV. Monarch Love, Resistless Boy.
     LXXV. Spirit of Love, Whose Locks unrolled.
    LXXVI. Hither, Gentle Muse of Mine.
   LXXVII. Would That I were a Tuneful Lyre.
  LXXVIII. When Cupid sees How Thickly Now.
           Let Me resign This Wretched Breath.
           I know Thou lovest a Brimming Measure.
           From Dread Lucadia's Frowning Steep.
           Mix Me, Child, a Cup Divine.
Anacreontic.
Anacreontic.
Anacreontic.
Anacreontic.
Anacreontic.
And doth not a Meeting Like This.
Angel of Charity.
Animal Magnetism.
Anne Boleyn.
Announcement of a New Grand Acceleration Company.
Announcement of a New Thalaba.
Annual Pill, The.
Anticipated Meeting of the British Association in the Year 1836.
As a Beam o'er the Face of the Waters may glow.
As down in the Sunless Retreats.
Ask not if Still I Love.
Aspasia.
As Slow our Ship.
As Vanquished Erin.
At Night.
At the Mid Hour of Night.
Avenging and Bright.
Awake, arise, Thy Light is come.
Awful Event.

Ballad, A.
Ballad for the Cambridge Election.
Ballad Stanzas.
Beauty and Song.
Before the Battle.
Behold the Sun.
Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms.
Black and Blue Eyes.
Blue Love-Song, A.
Boat Glee.
Boy of the Alps, The.
Boy Statesman, The.
Bright be Thy Dreams.
Bright Moon.
Bring the Bright Garlands Hither.
Brunswick Club, The.
But Who shall see.
By that Lake, Whose Gloomy Shore.

Calm be Thy Sleep.
Canadian Boat Song, A.
Canonization of Saint Butterworth, The.
Captain Rock in London.
Case of Libel, A.
Catalogue, The.
Cephalus and Procris.
Characterless, A.
Cherries, The.
Child's Song—From a Masque.
Church Extension.
Cloris and Fanny.
Cocker, on Church Reform.
Come, chase that Starting Tear Away.
Come Not, oh Lord.
Come o'er the Sea.
Come, play Me That Simple Air Again.
Come, rest in This Bosom.
Come, send Round the Wine.
Come, Ye Disconsolate.
Common Sense and Genius.
Consultation, The.
Copy of An Intercepted Despatch.
Corn and Catholics.
Corrected Report of Some Late Speeches, A.
Correspondence between a Lady and Gentleman.
Corruption, an Epistle.
Cotton and Corn.
Country Dance and Quadrille.
Crystal-Hunters, The.
Cupid and Psyche.
Cupid Armed.
Cupid's Lottery.
Curious Fact, A.

Dance of Bishops, The.
Dawn is breaking o'er Us, The.
Day-Dream, The.
Day of Love, The.
Dear Fanny.
Dear Harp of My Country.
Dear? Yes.
Desmond's Song.
Devil among the Scholars, The.
Dialogue between a Sovereign and a One Pound Note.
Dick * * * *.
Did not.
Dog-day Reflections.
Donkey and His Panniers, The.
Do not say That Life is waning.
Dost Thou Remember.
Dream, A.
Dreaming For Ever.
Dream of Antiquity, A.
Dream of Hindostan, A.
Dream of Home, The.
Dream of the Two Sisters, The.
Dream of Those Days, The.
Dream of Turtle, A.
Dreams.
Drink of This Cup.
Drink to Her.
Duke is the Lad, The.
Dying Warrior, The.

East Indian, The.
Echo.
Elegiac Stanzas.
Elegiac Stanzas.
Enigma.
Epigram.—"I never gave a Kiss" (says Prue).
Epigram.—"I want the Court Guide," said My Lady, "to look".
Epigram.—What News To-day?—"Oh! Worse and Worse".
Epigram.—Said His Highness to Ned, with That Grim Face of His.
Epilogue.
Epistle from Captain Rock to Lord Lyndhurst.
Epistle from Erasmus on Earth to Cicero in the Shades.
Epistle from Henry of Exeter to John of Tuam.
Epistle from Tom Crib to Big Ben.
Epistle of Condolence.
Epitaph on a Tuft-Hunter.
Erin, oh Erin.
Erin! The Tear and the Smile in Thine Eyes.
Euthanasia of Van, The.
Eveleen's Bower.
Evening Gun, The.
Evenings in Greece.
Exile, The.
Expostulation to Lord King, An.
Extract from a Prologue.
Extracts from the Diary of a Politician.

Fables for the Holy Alliance,
     I. The Dissolution of the Holy Alliance.
    II. The Looking-Glasses.
   III. The Torch of Liberty.
    IV. The Fly and the Bullock.
     V. Church and State.
    VI. The Little Grand Lama.
   VII. The Extinguishers.
  VIII. Louis Fourteenth's Wig.
Fairest! put on Awhile.
Fallen is Thy Throne.
Fall of Hebe, The.
Fancy.
Fancy Fair, The.
Fanny, Dearest.
Fare Thee Well, Thou Lovely One.
Farewell!—but Whenever You welcome the Hour.
Farewell, Theresa.
Fear not That, While Around Thee.
Fill the Bumper Fair.
Fire-Worshippers, The.
First Angel's Story.
Flow on, Thou Shining River.
Fly not Yet.
Fools' Paradise.
Forget not the Field.
For Thee Alone.
Fortune-Teller, The.
Fragment.
Fragment of a Character.
Fragment of a Mythological Hymn to Love.
Fragments of College Exercises.
From Life without Freedom.
From the Hon. Henry ——, to Lady Emma ——.
From This Hour the Pledge is given.
Fudge Family in Paris, The.
  Letter I. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ——, of Clonkilty, in
        Ireland.
    II. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to the Lord Viscount Castlereagh.
   III. From Mr. Bob Fudge to Richard ——, Esq.
    IV. From Phelim Connor to ——.
     V. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ——.
    VI. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to His Brother Tim Fudge, Esq., Barrister
        at Law.
   VII. From Phelim Connor to ——.
  VIII. From Mr. Bob Fudge to Richard ——, Esq.
    IX. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to the Lord Viscount Castlereagh.
     X. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ——.
    XI. From Phelim Connor to ——.
   XII. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ——.
Fudges in England, The.
  Letter I. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard —— Curate of
        —— in Ireland.
    II. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Mrs. Elizabeth —— Extracts from My
        Diary.
   III. From Miss Fanny Fudge to her Cousin, Kitty ——.
    IV. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard ——.
     V. From Larry O'Branigan In England, to His Wife Judy, at Mullinafad.
    VI. From Miss Biddy Fudge, to Mrs. Elizabeth —— Extracts from My
        Diary.
   VII. From Miss Fanny Fudge, to her Cousin, Miss Kitty ——.
  VIII. From Bob Fudge, Esq., to the Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan.
    IX. From Larry O'Branigan, to his Wife Judy.
     X. From the Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan, to the Rev. ——.
    XI. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard ——.
Fum and Hum, the two Birds of Royalty.

Garland I send Thee, The.
Gayly sounds the Castanet.
Gazel.
Gazelle, The.
Genius and Criticism.
Genius of Harmony, The.
Ghost of Miltiades, The.
Ghost Story, A.
Go forth to the Mount.
Go, let Me weep.
Go, Now, and dream.
Go, Then—'tis Vain.
Go Where Glory waits Thee.
Grand Dinner of Type and Co.
Grecian Girl's Dream of the Blessed Islands, The.
Greek of Meleager, From the.
Guess, guess.

Halcyon hangs o'er Ocean, The.
Hark! the Vesper Hymn is stealing.
Hark! 'Tis the Breeze.
Harp That Once thro' Tara's Halls, The.
Has Sorrow Thy Young Days shaded.
Hat versus Wig.
Hear Me but Once.
Here at Thy Tomb.
Here sleeps the Bard.
Here's the Bower.
Here, take My Heart.
Her Last Words at Parting.
Hero and Leander.
High-Born Ladye, The.
High Priest of Apollo to a Virgin of Delphi, From the.
Hip, Hip, Hurra.
Homeward March, The.
Hope comes Again.
Horace:
  Ode I. Lib. III.—I hate Thee, oh, Mob, as My Lady hates Delf.
  Ode XI. Lib. II.—Come, Yarmouth, My Boy, Never trouble your Brains.
  Ode XXII. Lib. I.—The Man Who keeps a Conscience Pure.
  Ode XXXVIII. Lib. I.—Boy, tell the Cook That I hate All Nicknackeries.
How Dear to Me the Hour.
How Happy, Once.
How lightly mounts the Muse's Wing.
How Oft has the Banshee cried.
How Oft, When watching Stars.
How shall I woo.
How to make a Good Politician.
How to make One's Self a Peer.
How to write by Proxy.
Hush, hush.
Hush, Sweet Lute.
Hymn of a Virgin of Delphi.
Hymn of Welcome after the Recess, A.

I'd mourn the Hopes.
"If" and "Perhaps".
If in Loving, Singing.
If Thou'lt be Mine.
If Thou wouldst have Me sing and play.
Ill Omens.
I love but Thee.
Imitation.
Imitation of Catullus.
Imitation of the Inferno of Dante.
Impromptu.
Impromptu.
Impromptu.
Incantation.
Incantation, An.
Inconstancy.
Indian Boat, The.
In Myrtle Wreaths.
Insurrection of the Papers, The.
Intended Tribute.
Intercepted Letters, etc.
  Letter I. From the Princess Charlotte of Wales to the Lady Barbara
        Ashley.
    II. From Colonel M'Mahon to Gould Francis Leckie, Esq.
   III. From George Prince Regent to the Earl of Yarmouth.
    IV. From the Right Hon. Patrick Duigenan to the Right Hon. Sir John
        Nicol.
     V. From the Countess Dowager of Cork to Lady ——.
    VI. From Abdallah, in London, to Mohassan, in Ispahan.
   VII. From Messrs. Lackington and Co. to Thomas Moore, Esq.
  VIII. From Colonel Thomas to —— Skeffington, Esq.
        Appendix.
In the Morning of Life.
Intolerance, a Satire.
Invisible Girl, To the.
Invitation to Dinner.
Irish Antiquities.
Irish Peasant to His Mistress, The.
Irish Slave, The.
I saw from the Beach.
I saw the Moon rise Clear.
I saw Thy Form in Youthful Prime.
Is it not Sweet to think. Hereafter.
It is not the Tear at This Moment shed.
I've a Secret to tell Thee.
I Will, I will, the Conflict's past.
I wish I was by That Dim Lake.

Joke Versified, A.
Joys of Youth, how fleeting.

Keep Those Eyes Still Purely Mine.
King Crack and His Idols.
Kiss, The.

Lalla Rookh.
Lament for the Loss of Lord Bathurst's Tail.
Language of Flowers, The.
Late Scene at Swanage, A.
Latest Accounts from Olympus.
Late Tithe Case.
Leaf and the Fountain, The.
Legacy, The.
Legend of Puck the Fairy, The.
Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye.
Les Hommes Automates.
Let Erin remember the Days of Old.
Let Joy Alone be remembered Now.
Let's take This World as Some Wide Scene.
Letter from Larry O'Branigan to the Rev. Murtagh O'Mulligan.
Light of the Haram, The.
Light sounds the Harp.
Like Morning When Her Early Breeze.
Like One Who, doomed.
Limbo of Lost Reputations, The.
Lines on the Death of Joseph Atkinson, Esq., of Dublin.
Lines on the Death of Mr. Perceval.
Lines on the Death of Sheridan.
Lines on the Departure of Lords Castlereagh and Stewart for the Continent.
Lines on the Entry of the Austrians into Naples.
Lines written at the Cohos, or Falls of the Mohawk River.
Lines written in a Storm at Sea.
Lines written on leaving Philadelphia.
Literary Advertisement.
Little Man and Little Soul.
"Living Dog" and "the Dead Lion," The.
Long Years have past.
Lord Henley and St. Cecilia.
Lord, Who shall bear That Day.
Love Alone.
Love and Hope.
Love and Hymen.
Love and Marriage.
Love and Reason.
Love and the Novice.
Love and the Sun-Dial.
Love and Time.
Love is a Hunter-Boy.
Love's Light Summer-Cloud.
Loves of the Angels, The.
Love's Victory.
Love's Young Dream.
Love Thee.
Love Thee, Dearest? Love Thee.
Love, wandering Thro' the Golden Maze.
Lusitanian War-Song.
Lying.

Mad Tory and the Comet, The.
Magic Mirror, The.
Meeting of the Ships, The.
Meeting of the Waters, The.
Melologue.
Memorabilia of Last Week.
Merrily Every Bosom boundeth.
Millennium, The.
Mind Not Tho' Daylight.
Minstrel-Boy, The.
Missing.
Morality.
Moral Positions.
Mountain Sprite, The.
Mr. Roger Dodsworth.
Musical Box, The.
Musings of an Unreformed Peer.
Musings, suggested by the Late Promotion of Mrs. Nethercoat.
My Birth-Day.
My Gentle Harp.
My Harp has One Unchanging Theme.
My Heart and Lute.
My Mopsa is Little.

Natal Genius, The.
Nature's Labels.
Nay, tell Me Not, Dear.
Ne'er ask the Hour.
Ne'er Talk of Wisdom's Gloomy Schools.
Nets and Cages.
New Costume of the Ministers, The.
New Creation of Peers.
New-Fashioned Echoes.
New Grand Exhibition of Models
New Hospital for Sick Literati.
News for Country Cousins.
Night Dance, The.
Nights of Music.
Night Thought, A.
No—leave My Heart to Rest.
Nonsense.
Not from Thee.
Notions on Reform.
Numbering of the Clergy, The.

Occasional Address for the Opening of the New Theatre of St. Stephen.
Occasional Epilogue.
Odes to Nea.
Ode to a Hat.
Ode to Don Miguel.
Ode to Ferdinand.
Ode to the Goddess Ceres.
Ode to the Sublime Porte.
Ode to the Woods and Forests.
O'Donohue's Mistress.
Oft, in the Stilly Night.
Oh! Arranmore, Loved Arranmore.
Oh Banquet Not.
Oh! Blame Not the Bard.
Oh! Breathe Not His Name.
Oh, call it by Some Better Name.
Oh, come to Me When Daylight sets.
Oh, could We do with This World of Ours.
Oh, Days of Youth.
Oh, do not look so Bright and Blest.
Oh! doubt Me Not.
Oh Fair! oh Purest.
Oh for the Swords of Former Tim.
Oh, guard our Affection.
Ob! had We Some Bright Little Isle of Our Own.
Oh, No—Not—Even. When First We loved.
Oh, Soon return.
Oh, teach Me to love Thee.
Oh the Shamrock.
Oh, the Sight Entrancing.
Oh! think Not My Spirits are Always as Light.
Oh Thou Who dry'st the Mourner's Tear.
Oh, Ye Dead.
On a Squinting Poetess.
One Bumper at Parting.
One Dear Smile.
On Music.
On the Death of a Friend.
On the Death of a Lady.
Origin of the Harp, The.
O say, Thou Best and Brightest.
Our First Young Love.

Paddy's Metamorphosis.
Paradise and the Peri.
Parallel, The.
Parody of a Celebrated Letter.
Parting before the Battle, The.
Pastoral Ballad, A.
Peace and Glory.
Peace be around Thee.
Peace, Peace to Him That's gone.
Peace to the Slumberers.
Periwinkles and the Locusts, The.
Petition of the Orangemen of Ireland, The.
Philosopher Artistippus to a Lamp, The.
Pilgrim, The.
Poor Broken Flower.
Poor Wounded; Heart.
Pretty Rose-tree.
Prince's Day, The.
Proposals for a Gynsecocracy.

Quick! We have but a Second.

Reason, Folly, and Beauty.
Recent Dialogue, A.
Rector and His Curate, The.
Reflection at Sea, A.
Reflections.
Reinforcements for Lord Wellington.
Religion and Trade.
Remember Thee.
Remember the Time.
Remonstrance.
Resemblance, The.
Resolutions passed at a Late Meeting of Reverends and Right Reverends.
Reuben and Rose.
Reverend Pamphleteer, The.
Rhymes on the Road.
  Introductory Rhymes.
  Extract I. Geneva.
         II. Geneva.
        III. Geneva.
         IV. Milan.
          V. Padua.
         VI. Venice.
        VII. Venice.
       VIII. Venice.
         IX. Venice.
          X. Mantua.
         XI. Florence.
        XII. Florence.
       XIII. Rome.
        XIV. Rome.
         XV. Rome.
        XVI. Les Charmettes.
Rich and Rare were the Gems She wore.
Rings and Seals.
Ring, The.
Ring, The.
Rival Topics.
Rondeau.
Rose of the Desert.
Round the World goes.
Row Gently Here.
Russian Lover, The.

Sad Case, A.
Sail on, sail on.
Sale of Cupid.
Sale of Loves, The.
Sale of Tools, The.
Say, What shall be Our Sport To-day.
Say, What shall We dance.
Scene from a Play.
Scepticism.
Sceptic, The.
Second Angel's Story.
See the Dawn from Heaven.
Selections.
Shall the Harp Then be Silent.
She is Far from the Land.
She sung of Love.
Shield, The.
Shine Out, Stars.
Should Those Fond Hopes.
Shrine, The.
Silence is in Our Festal Halls.
Since First Thy Word.
Sing—sing—Music was given.
Sing, Sweet Harp.
Sinking Fund cried, The.
Sir Andrew's Dream.
Sketch of the First Act of a New Romantic Drama.
Slumber, oh slumber.
Snake, The.
Snow Spirit, The.
Some Account of the Late Dinner to Dan.
Song.—Ah! Where are They, Who heard, in Former Hours.
  Array Thee, Love, Array Thee, Love.
  As by the Shore, at Break of Day.
  As Love One Summer Eve was straying.
  As o'er Her Loom the Lesbian Maid.
  As Once a Grecian Maiden wove.
  Bring Hither, bring Thy Lute, while Day is dying.
  Calm as Beneath its Mother's eyes.
  Fly from the World, O Bessy! to Me.
  Have You not seen the Timid Tear.
  Here, While the Moonlight Dim.
  If I swear by That Eye, You'll allow.
  If to see Thee be to love Thee.
  I saw from Yonder Silent Cave.
  March! nor heed Those Anna That hold Thee.
  Mary, I believed Thee True.
  No Life is Like the Mountaineer's.
  Of All My Happiest Hours of Joy.
  Oh, Memory, How Coldly.
  Oh, Where art Thou dreaming.
  Raise the Buckler-poise the Lance.
  Smoothly flowing Thro' Verdant Vales.
  Some Mortals There may be, so Wise, or so Fine.
  Take back the Sigh, Thy Lips of Art.
  The Wreath You wove, the Wreath You wove.
  Think on that Look Whose Melting Ray.
  Thou art not Dead—Thou art not Dead.
  "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the Cup-loving Boy.
  Up and march! the Timbrel's Sound.
  Up with the Sparkling Brimmer.
  Weeping for Thee, My Love, Thro' the Long Day.
  Welcome Sweet Bird, Thro' the Sunny Air winging.
  When Evening Shades are falling.
  When the Balaika.
  When Time Who steals Our Years Away.
  Where is the Heart That would not give.
  "Who comes so Gracefully,".
  Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's Shop, who'll buy.
  Why does Azure deck the Sky.
  Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn.
Song and Trio.
Song and Trio.
Song of a Hyperborean.
Song of Fionnuala, The.
Song of Hercules to his Daughter.
Song of Innisfall.
Song of Old Puck.
Song of O'Ruark, The.
Song of the Battle Eve.
Song of the Box, The.
Song of the Departing Spirit of Tithe.
Song of the Evil Spirit of the Woods.
Song of the Nubian Girl.
Song of the Olden Time, The.
Song of the Poco-Curante Society.
Song of the two Cupbearers.
Songs of the Church.
Sound the Loud Timbrel.
Sovereign Woman.
So Warmly We met.
Spa, The Wellington.
Speculation, A.
Speech on the Umbrella Question.
Spring and Autumn.
Stanzas.
Stanzas from the Banks of the Shannon.
Stanzas written in Anticipation of Defeat.
Steersman's Song, The.
Still, like Dew in Silence falling.
Still Thou fliest.
Still When Daylight.
St. Jerome on Earth.
Stranger, The.
St. Senanus and the Lady.
Study from the Antique, A.
Sublime was the Warning.
Summer Fête, The.
Summer Webs, The.
Sunday Ethics.
Surprise, The.
Sweet Innisfallen.
Sylph's Ball, The.
Sympathy.

Take Back the Virgin Page.
Take Hence the Bowl.
Tear, The.
Tell Her, oh, tell Her.
Tell-Tale Lyre, The.
Temple to Friendship, A.
The Bird, let Loose.
Thee, Thee, Only Thee.
Then, Fare Thee Well.
Then First from Love.
There are Sounds of Mirth.
There comes a Time.
There is a Bleak Desert.
There's Something Strange.
They know not My Heart.
They may rail at This Life.
They met but Once.
They tell Me Thou'rt the Favored Guest.
Third Angel's Story.
This Life is All checkered with Pleasures and Woes.
This World is All a Fleeting Show..
Tho, Humble the Banquet.
Tho' Lightly sounds the Song I sing.
Those Evening Bells.
Tho' the Last Glimpse of Erin with Sorrow I see.
Tho' 'tis All but a Dream.
Thou art, O God.
Thou bidst Me sing.
Thoughts on Mischief.
Thoughts on Patrons, Puffs, and Other Matters.
Thoughts on Tar Barrels.
Thoughts on the Late Destructive Propositions of the Tories.
Thoughts on the Present Government of Ireland.
Thou lovest No More.
Three Doctors, The.
Tibullus to Sulpicia.
Time I've lost in wooing, The.
'Tis All for Thee.
'Tis Gone, and For Ever.
'Tis Sweet to think.
'Tis the Last Rose of Summer.
To……: And hast Thou marked the Pensive Shade.
To……: Come, take Thy Harp—'tis vain to muse.
To……: Never mind How the Pedagogue proses.
To……: Put off the Vestal Veil, nor, oh.
To……: Remember Him Thou leavest behind.
To……: Sweet Lady, look not Thus Again.
To……: That Wrinkle, when First I espied it.
To……: The World had just begun to steal.
To……: 'Tis Time, I feel, to leave Thee Now.
To……: To be the Theme of Every Hour.
To……: When I loved You, I can't but allow.
To……: With All My Soul, Then, let us part.
To……'s Picture: Go Then, if She, Whose Shade Thou art.
To a Boy, with a Watch.
To a Lady, with Some Manuscript Poems.
To a Lady, on Her singing.
To Cara, after an Interval of Absence.
To Cara, oh the Dawning of a New Year's Day.
To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.
To Cloe.
To-Day, Dearest, is Ours.
To George Morgan, Esq.
To His Serene Highness the Duke of Montpensier.
To James Corry, Esq.
To Joseph Atkinson, Esq.
To Julia, in Allusion to Some Illiberal Criticisms.
To Julia: Mock me No More with Love's Beguiling Dream.
To Julia: Though Fate, My Girl, may bid Us part.
To Julia, on Her Birthday.
To Julia: I saw the Peasant's Hand Unkind.
To Julia weeping.
To Ladies' Eyes.
To Lady Heathcote.
To Lady Holland.
To Lady Jersey.
To Lord Viscount Strangford.
To Miss Moore.
To Miss Susan Beckford.
To Miss —— on Her asking the Author Why She had Sleepless Nights.
To Mrs. Bl——, written in Her Album.
To Mrs. ——, on Some Calumnies against Her Character.
To Mrs. ——: To see Thee Every Day That came.
To Mrs. ——, on Her Beautiful Translation of Voiture's Kiss.
To Mrs. Henry Tighe.
To My Mother.
To Phillis.
To Rosa, written during Illness.
To Rosa: And are You Then a Thing of Art.
To Rosa. Is the Song of Rosa Mute.
To Rosa: Like One Who trusts to Summer Skies.
To Rosa; Say Why should the Girl of My Soul be in Tears.
Tory Pledges.
To Sir Hudson Lowe.
To the Boston Frigate.
To the Fire-Fly.
To the Flying-Fish.
To the Honorable W. R. Spencer.
To the Lady Charlotte Rawdon.
To the Large and Beautiful Miss ——.
To the Lord Viscount Forbes.
To the Marchioness Dowager of Donegall.
To the Rev. Charles Overton.
To the Reverend ——.
To Thomas Hume, Esq., M.D.
To the Ship in Which Lord Castlereagh sailed for the Continent.
Tout pour la Tripe.
To weave a Garland for the Rose.
Translation from the Gull Language.
Translations from Catullus.
Trio.
Triumph of Bigotry.
Triumph of Farce, The.
Turf shall be My Fragrant Shrine, The
'Twas One of Those Dreams.
Two Loves, The.
Twin'st Thou with' Lofty Wreath Thy Brow.

Unbind Thee, Love.
Up, Sailor Boy, 'tis Day.

Valley of the Nile, The.
Variety.
Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, The.
Verses to the Poet Crabbe's Inkstand.
Vision, A.
Vision of Philosophy, A.
Voice, The.

Wake Thee, My Dear.
Wake Up, Sweet Melody.
Waltz Duet.
Wandering Bard, The.
War against Babylon.
Warning, A.
War Song.
Watchman, The.
Weep, Children of Israel.
Weep not for Those.
Weep on, weep on.
Wellington, Lord, and the Ministers.
Wellington Spa, The.
We may roam through This World.
Were not the Sinful Mary's Tears.
What shall I sing Thee.
What's My Thought like.
What the Bee is to the Floweret.
When Abroad in the World.
When Cold in the Earth.
When e'er I see Those Smiling Eyes.
When First I met Thee.
When First That Smile.
When He, Who adores Thee.
When Love was a Child.
When Love, Who ruled.
When Midst the Gay I meet.
When Night brings the Hour.
When on the Lip the Sigh delays.
When the First Summer Bee.
When the Sad Word.
When the Wine-Cup is smiling.
When Thou shalt wander.
When Through the Piazzetta.
When to Sad Music Silent You listen.
When Twilight Dews.
Where are the Visions.
Where is the Slave.
Where is Your Dwelling, Ye Sainted.
Where shall We bury our Shame.
While gazing on the Moon's Light.
While History's Muse.
Who is the Maid.
Who'll buy My Love Knots.
Why does She so Long delay.
Wind Thy Horn, My Hunter Boy.
Wine-Cup is circling, The.
With Moonlight beaming.
Woman.
Wonder, The.
World was husht.
Wo! wo.
Wreath and the Chain, The.
Wreaths for the Ministers.
Wreath the Bowl.
Write on, write on.
Written in a Commonplace Book.
Written in the Blank Leaf of a Lady's Commonplace Book.
Written on passing Deadman's Island.

Yes, yes, When the Bloom.
Young Indian Maid, The.
Young Jessica.
Young May Moon, The.
Young Muleteers of Grenada, The.
Young Rose, The.
You remember Ellen.
Youth and Age.

ODES OF ANACREON

(1800).

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE.

WITH NOTES.

TO

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCE OF WALES.

SIR,—In allowing me to dedicate this Work to Your Royal Highness, you have conferred upon me an honor which I feel very sensibly: and I have only to regret that the pages which you have thus distinguished are not more deserving of such illustrious patronage.

Believe me, SIR,
With every sentiment of respect,
Your Royal Highness's
Very grateful and devoted Servant,

THOMAS MOORE.

REMARKS ON ANACREON

There is but little known, with certainty of the life of Anacreon. Chamaeleon Heracleotes, who wrote upon the subject, has been lost in the general wreck of ancient literature. The editors of the poet have collected the few trifling anecdotes which are scattered through the extant authors of antiquity, and, supplying the deficiency of materials by fictions of their own imagination, have arranged what they call a life of Anacreon. These specious fabrications are intended to indulge that interest which we naturally feel in the biography of illustrious men; but it is rather a dangerous kind of illusion, as it confounds the limits of history and romance, and is too often supported by unfaithful citation.

Our poet was born in the city of Teos, in the delicious region of Ionia, and the time of his birth appears to have been in the sixth century before Christ. He flourished at that remarkable period when, under the polished tyrants Hipparchus and Polycrates, Athens and Samos were become the rival asylums of genius. There is nothing certain known about his family; and those who pretend to discover in Plato that he was a descendant of the monarch Codrus, show much more of zeal than of either accuracy or judgment.

The disposition and talents of Anacreon recommended him to the monarch of Samos, and he was formed to be the friend of such a prince as Polycrates. Susceptible only to the pleasures, he felt not the corruptions, of the court; and while Pythagoras fled from the tyrant, Anacreon was celebrating his praises oh the lyre. We are told, too, by Maximus Tyrius, that, by the influence of his amatory songs, he softened the mind of Polycrates into a spirit of benevolence towards his subjects.

The amours of the poet, and the rivalship of the tyrant, I shall pass over in silence; and there are few, I presume, who will regret the omission of most of those anecdotes, which the industry of some editors has not only promulged, but discussed. Whatever is repugnant to modesty and virtue is considered, in ethical science, by a supposition very favorable to humanity, as impossible; and this amiable persuasion should be much more strongly entertained where the transgression wars with nature as well as virtue. But why are we not allowed to indulge in the presumption? Why are we officiously reminded that there have been really such instances of depravity?

Hipparchus, who now maintained at Athens the power which his father Pisistratus had usurped, was one of those princes who may be said to have polished the fetters of their subjects. He was the first, according to Plato, who edited the poems of Homer, and commanded them to be sung by the rhapsodists at the celebration of the Panathenaea. From his court, which was a sort of galaxy of genius, Anacreon could not long be absent. Hipparchus sent a barge for him; the poet readily embraced the invitation, and the Muses and the Loves were wafted with him to Athens.

The manner of Anacreon's death was singular. We are told that in the eighty-fifth year of his age he was choked by a grape-stone; and however we may smile at their enthusiastic partiality who see in this easy and characteristic death a peculiar indulgence of Heaven, we cannot help admiring that his fate should have been so emblematic of his disposition. Caelius Calcagninus alludes to this catastrophe in the following epitaph on our poet:—

  Those lips, then, hallowed sage, which poured along
  A music sweet as any cygnet's song,
    The grape hath closed for ever!
  Here let the ivy kiss the poet's tomb,
  Here let the rose he loved with laurels bloom,
    In bands that ne'er shall sever.
  But far be thou, oh! far, unholy vine,
  By whom the favorite minstrel of the Nine
    Lost his sweet vital breath;
  Thy God himself now blushes to confess,
  Once hallowed vine! he feels he loves thee less,
    Since poor Anacreon's death.

It has been supposed by some writers that Anacreon and Sappho were contemporaries; and the very thought of an intercourse between persons so congenial, both in warmth of passion and delicacy of genius, gives such play to the imagination that the mind loves to indulge in it. But the vision dissolves before historical truth; and Chamaeleon, and Hermesianax, who are the source of the supposition, are considered as having merely indulged in a poetical anachronism.

To infer the moral dispositions of a poet from the tone of sentiment which pervades his works, is sometimes a very fallacious analogy; but the soul of Anacreon speaks so unequivocally through his odes, that we may safely consult them as the faithful mirrors of his heart. We find him there the elegant voluptuary, diffusing the seductive charm of sentiment over passions and propensities at which rigid morality must frown. His heart, devoted to indolence, seems to have thought that there is wealth enough in happiness, but seldom happiness in mere wealth. The cheerfulness, indeed, with which he brightens his old age is interesting and endearing; like his own rose, he is fragrant even in decay. But the most peculiar feature of his mind is that love of simplicity, which be attributes to himself so feelingly, and which breathes characteristically throughout all that he has sung. In truth, if we omit those few vices in our estimate which religion, at that time, not only connived at, but consecrated, we shall be inclined to say that the disposition of our poet was amiable; that his morality was relaxed, but not abandoned; and that Virtue, with her zone loosened, may be an apt emblem of the character of Anacreon.

Of his person and physiognomy, time has preserved such uncertain memorials, that it were better, perhaps, to leave the pencil to fancy; and few can read the Odes of Anacreon without imaging to themselves the form of the animated old bard, crowned with roses, and singing cheerfully to his lyre.

After the very enthusiastic eulogiums bestowed both by ancients and moderns upon the poems of Anacreon, we need not be diffident in expressing our raptures at their beauty, nor hesitate to pronounce them the most polished remains of antiquity. They are indeed, all beauty, all enchantment. He steals us so insensibly along with him, that we sympathize even in his excesses. In his amatory odes there is a delicacy of compliment not to be found in any other ancient poet. Love at that period was rather an unrefined emotion; and the intercourse of the sexes was animated more by passion than by sentiment. They knew not those little tendernesses which form the spiritual part of affection; their expression of feeling was therefore rude and unvaried, and the poetry of love deprived it of its most captivating graces. Anacreon, however, attained some ideas of this purer gallantry; and the same delicacy of mind which led him to this refinement, prevented him also from yielding to the freedom of language which has sullied the pages of all the other poets. His descriptions are warm; but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words. He is sportive without being wanton, and ardent without being licentious. His poetic invention is always most brilliantly displayed in those allegorical fictions which so many have endeavored to imitate, though all have confessed them to be inimitable. Simplicity is the distinguishing feature of these odes, and they interest by their innocence, as much as they fascinate by their beauty. They may be said, indeed, to be the very infants of the Muses, and to lisp in numbers.

I shall not be accused of enthusiastic partiality by those who have read and felt the original; but to others, I am conscious, this should not be the language of a translator, whose faint reflection of such beauties can but ill justify his admiration of them.

In the age of Anacreon music and poetry were inseparable. These kindred talents were for a long time associated, and the poet always sung his own compositions to the lyre. It is probable that they were not set to any regular air, but rather a kind of musical recitation, which was varied according to the fancy and feelings of the moment. The poems of Anacreon were sung at banquets as late as the time of Aulus Gellius, who tells us that he heard one of the odes performed at a birthday entertainment.

The singular beauty of our poet's style and the apparent facility, perhaps, of his metre have attracted, as I have already remarked, a crowd of imitators. Some of these have succeeded with wonderful felicity, as may be discerned in the few odes which are attributed to writers of a later period. But none of his emulators have been half so dangerous to his fame as those Greek ecclesiastics of the early ages, who, being conscious of their own inferiority to their great prototypes, determined on removing all possibility of comparison, and, under a semblance of moral zeal, deprived the world of some of the most exquisite treasures of ancient times. The works of Sappho and Alcaeus were among those flowers of Grecian literature which thus fell beneath the rude hand of ecclesiastical presumption. It is true they pretended that this sacrifice of genius was hallowed by the interests of religion, but I have already assigned the most probable motive; and if Gregorius Nazianzenus had not written Anacreontics, we might now perhaps have the works of the Teian unmutilated, and be empowered to say exultingly with Horace,

Nec si quid olim lusit Anacreon delevit aetas.

The zeal by which these bishops professed to be actuated gave birth more innocently, indeed, to an absurd species of parody, as repugnant to piety as it is to taste, where the poet of voluptuousness was made a preacher of the gospel, and his muse, like the Venus in armor at Lacedaemon, was arrayed in all the severities of priestly instruction. Such was the "Anacreon Recantatus," by Carolus de Aquino, a Jesuit, published 1701, which consisted of a series of palinodes to the several songs of our poet. Such, too, was the Christian Anacreon of Patrignanus, another Jesuit, who preposterously transferred to a most sacred subject all that the Graecian poet had dedicated to festivity and love.

His metre has frequently been adopted by the modern Latin poets; and Scaliger, Taubman, Barthius, and others, have shown that it is by no means uncongenial with that language. The Anacreontics of Scaliger, however, scarcely deserve the name; as they glitter all over with conceits, and, though often elegant, are always labored. The beautiful fictions of Angerianus preserve more happily than any others the delicate turn of those allegorical fables, which, passing so frequently through the mediums of version and imitation, have generally lost their finest rays in the transmission. Many of the Italian poets have indulged their fancies upon the subjects; and in the manner of Anacreon, Bernardo Tasso first introduced the metre, which was afterwards polished and enriched by Chabriera and others.

ODES OF ANACREON

ODE I.[1]

I saw the smiling bard of pleasure,
The minstrel of the Teian measure;
'Twas in a vision of the night,
He beamed upon my wondering sight.
I heard his voice, and warmly prest
The dear enthusiast to my breast.
His tresses wore a silvery dye,
But beauty sparkled in his eye;
Sparkled in his eyes of fire,
Through the mist of soft desire.
His lip exhaled, when'er he sighed,
The fragrance of the racy tide;
And, as with weak and reeling feet
He came my cordial kiss to meet,
An infant, of the Cyprian band,
Guided him on with tender hand.
Quick from his glowing brows he drew
His braid, of many a wanton hue;
I took the wreath, whose inmost twine
Breathed of him and blushed with wine.
I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow,
And ah! I feel its magic now:
I feel that even his garland's touch
Can make the bosom love too much.

[1] This ode is the first of the series in the Vatican manuscript, which attributes it to no other poet than Anacreon. They who assert that the manuscript imputes it to Basilius, have been mislead. Whether it be the production of Anacreon or not, it has all the features of ancient simplicity, and is a beautiful imitation of the poet's happiest manner.

ODE II.

Give me the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrilled along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal right,[1]
I'm monarch of the board to-night;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I.
And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm enchanting balm infuse,
Our feet shall catch the elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
Great Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,
In wild but sweet ebriety;
Flashing around such sparks of thought,
As Bacchus could alone have taught.

Then, give the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrilled along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.

[1] The ancients prescribed certain laws of drinking at their festivals, for an account of which see the commentators. Anacreon here acts the symposiarch, or master of the festival.

ODE III.[1]

Listen to the Muse's lyre,
Master of the pencil's fire!
Sketched in painting's bold display,
Many a city first portray;
Many a city, revelling free,
Full of loose festivity.
Picture then a rosy train,
Bacchants straying o'er the plain;
Piping, as they roam along,
Roundelay or shepherd-song.
Paint me next, if painting may
Such a theme as this portray,
All the earthly heaven of love
These delighted mortals prove.

[1] La Fosse has thought proper to lengthen this poem by considerable interpolations of his own, which he thinks are indispensably necessary to the completion of the description.

ODE IV.[1]

Vulcan! hear your glorious task;
I did not from your labors ask
In gorgeous panoply to shine,
For war was ne'er a sport of mine.
No—let me have a silver bowl,
Where I may cradle all my soul;
But mind that, o'er its simple frame
No mimic constellations flame;
Nor grave upon the swelling side,
Orion, scowling o'er the tide.

I care not for the glittering wain,
Nor yet the weeping sister train.
But let the vine luxuriant roll
Its blushing tendrils round the bowl,
While many a rose-lipped bacchant maid
Is culling clusters in their shade.
Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes,
Wildly press the gushing grapes,
And flights of Loves, in wanton play,
Wing through the air their winding way;
While Venus, from her arbor green,
Looks laughing at the joyous scene,
And young Lyaeus by her side
Sits, worthy of so bright a bride.

[1] This ode, Aulus Gellius tells us, was performed at an entertainment where he was present.

ODE V.

Sculptor, wouldst thou glad my soul,
Grave for me an ample bowl,
Worthy to shine in hall or bower,
When spring-time brings the reveller's hour.
Grave it with themes of chaste design,
Fit for a simple board like mine.
Display not there the barbarous rites
In which religious zeal delights;
Nor any tale of tragic fate
Which History shudders to relate.
No—cull thy fancies from above,
Themes of heaven and themes of love.
Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy,
Distil the grape in drops of joy,
And while he smiles at every tear,
Let warm-eyed Venus, dancing near,
With spirits of the genial bed,
The dewy herbage deftly tread.
Let Love be there, without his arms,
In timid nakedness of charms;
And all the Graces, linked with Love,
Stray, laughing, through the shadowy grove;
While rosy boys disporting round,
In circlets trip the velvet ground.
But ah! if there Apollo toys,[1]
I tremble for the rosy boys.

[1] An allusion to the fable that Apollo had killed his beloved boy Hyacinth, while playing with him at quoits. "This" (says M. La Fosse) "is assuredly the sense of the text, and it cannot admit of any other."

ODE VI.[1]

As late I sought the spangled bowers,
To cull a wreath of matin flowers,
Where many an early rose was weeping,
I found the urchin Cupid sleeping,
I caught the boy, a goblet's tide
Was richly mantling by my side,
I caught him by his downy wing,
And whelmed him in the racy spring.
Then drank I down the poisoned bowl,
And love now nestles in my soul.
Oh, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,
I feel him fluttering in my breast.

[1] This beautiful fiction, which the commentators have attributed to Julian, a royal poet, the Vatican MS. pronounces to be the genuine offspring of Anacreon.

ODE VII.

The women tell me every day
That all my bloom has pas past away.
"Behold," the pretty wantons cry,
"Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And like the rest, they're withering too!"
Whether decline has thinned my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give.

ODE VIII.[1]

I care not for the idle state
Of Persia's king, the rich, the great.
I envy not the monarch's throne,
Nor wish the treasured gold my own
But oh! be mine the rosy wreath,
Its freshness o'er my brow to breathe;
Be mine the rich perfumes that flow,
To cool and scent my locks of snow.
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine
As if to-morrow ne'er would shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then—
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimmed their bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile
With mantling pup and cordial smile;
And shed from each new bowl of wine,
The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine
For death may come, with brow unpleasant,
May come, when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the Sable shore,
And grimly bid us—drink no more!

[1] Baxter conjectures that this was written upon the occasion of our poet's returning the money to Polycrates, according to the anecdote in Stobaeus.

ODE IX.

I pray thee, by the gods above,
Give me the mighty bowl I love,
And let me sing, in wild delight,
"I will—I will be mad to-night!"
Alcmaeon once, as legends tell,
Was frenzied by the fiends of hell;
Orestes, too, with naked tread,
Frantic paced the mountain-head;
And why? a murdered mother's shade
Haunted them still where'er they strayed.
But ne'er could I a murderer be,
The grape alone shall bleed for me;
Yet can I shout, with wild delight,
"I will—I will be mad to-night."

Alcides' self, in days of yore,
Imbrued his hands in youthful gore,
And brandished, with a maniac joy,
The quiver of the expiring boy:
And Ajax, with tremendous shield,
Infuriate scoured the guiltless field.
But I, whose hands no weapon ask,
No armor but this joyous flask;
The trophy of whose frantic hours
Is but a scattered wreath of flowers,
Ev'n I can sing, with wild delight,
"I will—I will be mad to-night!"

ODE X.[1]

How am I to punish thee,
For the wrong thou'st done to me
Silly swallow, prating thing—
Shall I clip that wheeling wing?
Or, as Tereus did, of old,[2]
(So the fabled tale is told,)
Shall I tear that tongue away,
Tongue that uttered such a lay?
Ah, how thoughtless hast thou been!
Long before the dawn was seen,
When a dream came o'er my mind,
Picturing her I worship, kind,
Just when I was nearly blest,
Loud thy matins broke my rest!

[1] This ode is addressed to a swallow.

[2] Modern poetry has conferred the name of Philomel upon the nightingale; but many respectable authorities among the ancients assigned this metamorphose to Progne, and made Philomel the swallow, as Anacreon does here.

ODE XI.[1]

"Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee,
What in purchase shall I pay thee
For this little waxen toy,
Image of the Paphian boy?"
Thus I said, the other day,
To a youth who past my way:
"Sir," (he answered, and the while
Answered all in Doric style,)
"Take it, for a trifle take it;
'Twas not I who dared to make it;
No, believe me, 'twas not I;
Oh, it has cost me many a sigh,
And I can no longer keep
Little Gods, who murder sleep!"
"Here, then, here," (I said with joy,)
"Here is silver for the boy:
He shall be my bosom guest,
Idol of my pious breast!"

Now, young Love, I have thee mine,
Warm me with that torch of thine;
Make me feel as I have felt,
Or thy waxen frame shall melt:
I must burn with warm desire,
Or thou, my boy—in yonder fire.[2]

[1] It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative simplicity of this ode, and the humor of the turn with which it concludes. I feel, indeed, that the translation must appear vapid, if not ludicrous, to an English reader.

[2] From this Longepierre conjectures, that, whatever Anacreon might say, he felt sometimes the inconveniences of old age, and here solicits from the power of Love a warmth which he could no longer expect from Nature.

ODE XII.

They tell how Atys, wild with love,
Roams the mount and haunted grove;[1]
Cvbele's name he howls around,
The gloomy blast returns the sound!
Oft too, by Claros' hallowed spring,[2]
The votaries of the laurelled king
Quaff the inspiring, magic stream,
And rave in wild, prophetic dream.
But frenzied dreams are not for me,
Great Bacchus is my deity!
Full of mirth, and full of him,
While floating odors round me swim,
While mantling bowls are full supplied,
And you sit blushing by my side,
I will be mad and raving too—
Mad, my girl, with love for you!

[1] There are many contradictory stories of the loves of Cybele and Atys. It is certain that he was mutilated, but whether by his own fury, or Cybele's jealousy, is a point upon which authors are not agreed.

[2] This fountain was in a grove, consecrated to Apollo, and situated between Colophon and Lebedos, in Ionia. The god had an oracle there.

ODE XIII.

I will, I will, the conflict's past,
And I'll consent to love at last.
Cupid has long, with smiling art,
Invited me to yield my heart;
And I have thought that peace of mind
Should not be for a smile resigned;
And so repelled the tender lure,
And hoped my heart would sleep secure.

But, slighted in his boasted charms,
The angry infant flew to arms;
He slung his quiver's golden frame,
He took his bow; his shafts of flame,
And proudly summoned me to yield,
Or meet him on the martial field.
And what did I unthinking do?
I took to arms, undaunted, too;
Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.

Then (hear it, All ye powers above!)
I fought with Love! I fought with Love!
And now his arrows all were shed,
And I had just in terror fled—
When, heaving an indignant sigh,
To see me thus unwounded fly,
And, having now no other dart,
He shot himself into my heart![1]
My heart—alas the luckless day!
Received the God, and died away.
Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield!
Thy lord at length is forced to yield.
Vain, vain, is every outward care,
The foe's within, and triumphs there.

[1] Dryden has parodied this thought in the following extravagant lines:—
   ——I'm all o'er Love;
  Nay, I am Love, Love shot, and shot so fast,
  He shot himself into my breast at last.

ODE XIV.[1]

Count me, on the summer trees,
Every leaf that courts the breeze;
Count me, on the foamy deep,
Every wave that sinks to sleep;
Then, when you have numbered these
Billowy tides and leafy trees,
Count me all the flames I prove,
All the gentle nymphs I love.
First, of pure Athenian maids
Sporting in their olive shades,
You may reckon just a score,
Nay, I'll grant you fifteen more.
In the famed Corinthian grove,
Where such countless wantons rove,[2]
Chains of beauties may be found,
Chains, by which my heart is bound;
There, indeed, are nymphs divine,
Dangerous to a soul like mine.
Many bloom in Lesbos' isle;
Many in Ionia smile;
Rhodes a pretty swarm can boast;
Caria too contains a host.
Sum them all—of brown and fair
You may count two thousand there.
What, you stare? I pray you peace!
More I'll find before I cease.
Have I told you all my flames,
'Mong the amorous Syrian dames?
Have I numbered every one,
Glowing under Egypt's sun?
Or the nymphs, who blushing sweet
Deck the shrine of Love in Crete;
Where the God, with festal play,
Holds eternal holiday?
Still in clusters, still remain
Gades' warm, desiring train:[3]
Still there lies a myriad more
On the sable India's shore;
These, and many far removed,
All are loving—all are loved!

[1] The poet, in this catalogue of his mistresses, means nothing more, than, by a lively hyperbole, to inform us, that his heart, unfettered by any one object, was warm with devotion towards the sex in general. Cowley is indebted to this ode for the hint of his ballad, called "The Chronicle."

[2] Corinth was very famous for the beauty and number of its courtesans. Venus was the deity principally worshipped by the people, and their constant prayer was, that the gods should increase the number of her worshippers.

[3] The music of the Gaditanian females had all the voluptuous character of their dancing, as appears from Martial.

ODE XV.[1]

Tell me, why, my sweetest dove,
Thus your humid pinions move,
Shedding through the air in showers
Essence of the balmiest flowers?
Tell me whither, whence you rove,
Tell me all, my sweetest dove.

Curious stranger, I belong
To the bard of Teian song;
With his mandate now I fly
To the nymph of azure eye;—
She, whose eye has maddened many,
But the poet more than any,
Venus, for a hymn of love,
Warbled in her votive grove,[2]
('Twas, in sooth a gentle lay,)
Gave me to the bard away.
See me now his faithful minion,—
Thus with softly-gliding pinion,
To his lovely girl I bear
Songs of passion through the air.
Oft he blandly whispers me,
"Soon, my bird, I'll set you free."
But in vain he'll bid me fly,
I shall serve him till I die.
Never could my plumes sustain
Ruffling winds and chilling rain,
O'er the plains, or in the dell,
On the mountain's savage swell,
Seeking in the desert wood
Gloomy shelter, rustic food.
Now I lead a life of ease,
Far from rugged haunts like these.
From Anacreon's hand I eat
Food delicious, viands sweet;
Flutter o'er his goblet's brim,
Sip the foamy wine with him.
Then, when I have wantoned round
To his lyre's beguiling sound;
Or with gently moving-wings
Fanned the minstrel while he sings;
On his harp I sink in slumbers,
Dreaming still of dulcet numbers!

This is all—away—away—
You have made me waste the day.
How I've chattered! prating crow
Never yet did chatter so.

[1] The dove of Anacreon, bearing a letter from the poet to his mistress, is met by a stranger, with whom this dialogue, is imagined.

[2] "This passage is invaluable, and I do not think that anything so beautiful or so delicate has ever been said. What an idea does it give of the poetry of the man, from whom Venus herself, the mother of the Graces and the Pleasures, purchases a little hymn with one of her favorite doves!"—LONGEPIERRE.

ODE XVI.[1]

Thou, whose soft and rosy hues
Mimic form and soul infuse,
Best of painters, come portray
The lovely maid that's far away.
Far away, my soul! thou art,
But I've thy beauties all by heart.
Paint her jetty ringlets playing,
Silky locks, like tendrils straying;[2]
And, if painting hath the skill
To make the spicy balm distil,
Let every little lock exhale
A sigh of perfume on the gale.
Where her tresses' curly flow
Darkles o'er the brow of snow,
Let her forehead beam to light,
Burnished as the ivory bright.
Let her eyebrows smoothly rise
In jetty arches o'er her eyes,
Each, a crescent gently gliding,
Just commingling, just dividing.

But, hast thou any sparkles warm,
The lightning of her eyes to form?
Let them effuse the azure rays,
That in Minerva's glances blaze,
Mixt with the liquid light that lies
In Cytherea's languid eyes.
O'er her nose and cheek be shed
Flushing white and softened red;
Mingling tints, as when there glows
In snowy milk the bashful rose.
Then her lip, so rich in blisses,
Sweet petitioner for kisses,
Rosy nest, where lurks Persuasion,
Mutely courting Love's invasion.
Next, beneath the velvet chin,
Whose dimple hides a Love within,
Mould her neck with grace descending,
In a heaven of beauty ending;
While countless charms, above, below,
Sport and flutter round its snow.
Now let a floating, lucid veil,
Shadow her form, but not conceal;[3]
A charm may peep, a hue may beam
And leave the rest to Fancy's dream.
Enough—'tis she! 'tis all I seek;
It glows, it lives, it soon will speak!

[1] This ode and the next may be called companion-pictures; they are highly finished, and give us an excellent idea of the taste of the ancients in beauty.

[2] The ancients have been very enthusiastic in their praises of the beauty of hair. Apuleius, in the second book of his Milesiacs, says that Venus herself, if she were bald, though surrounded by the Graces and the Loves, could not be pleasing even to her husband Vulcan.

[3] This delicate art of description, which leaves imagination to complete the picture, has been seldom adopted in the imitations of this beautiful poem. Ronsard is exceptionally minute; and Politianus, in his charming portrait of a girl, full of rich and exquisite diction, has lifted the veil rather too much. The "questa che tu m'intendi" should be always left to fancy.

ODE XVII.

And now with all thy pencil's truth,
Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth!
Let his hair, in masses bright,
Fall like floating rays of light;
And there the raven's die confuse
With the golden sunbeam's hues.
Let no wreath, with artful twine.
The flowing of his locks confine;
But leave them loose to every breeze,
To take what shape and course they please.
Beneath the forehead, fair as snow,
But flushed with manhood's early glow,
And guileless as the dews of dawn,
Let the majestic brows be drawn,
Of ebon hue, enriched by gold,
Such as dark, shining snakes unfold.
Mix in his eyes the power alike,
With love to win, with awe to strike;
Borrow from Mars his look of ire,
From Venus her soft glance of fire;
Blend them in such expression here,
That we by turns may hope and fear!

Now from the sunny apple seek
The velvet down that spreads his cheek;
And there, if art so far can go,
The ingenuous blush of boyhood show.
While, for his mouth—but no,—in vain
Would words its witching charm explain.
Make it the very seat, the throne,
That Eloquence would claim her own;
And let the lips, though silent, wear
A life-look, as if words were there.

Next thou his ivory neck must trace,
Moulded with soft but manly grace;
Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy,
Where Paphia's arms have hung in joy.
Give him the wingèd Hermes' hand,
With which he waves his snaky wand;
Let Bacchus the broad chest supply,
And Leda's son the sinewy thigh;
While, through his whole transparent frame,
Thou show'st the stirrings of that flame,
Which kindles, when the first love-sigh
Steals from the heart, unconscious why.

But sure thy pencil, though so bright,
Is envious of the eye's delight,
Or its enamoured touch would show
The shoulder, fair as sunless snow,
Which now in veiling shadow lies,
Removed from all but Fancy's eyes.
Now, for his feet—but hold—forbear—
I see the sun-god's portrait there:[1]
Why paint Bathyllus? when in truth,
There, in that god, thou'st sketched the youth.
Enough—let this bright form be mine,
And send the boy to Samos' shrine;
Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be,
Bathyllus then, the deity!

[1] The abrupt turn here is spirited, but requires some explanation. While the artist is pursuing the portrait of Bathyllus, Anacreon, we must suppose, turns around and sees a picture of Apollo, which was intended for an altar at Samos. He then instantly tells the painter to cease his work; that this picture will serve for Bathyllus; and that, when he goes to Samos, he may make an Apollo of the portrait of the boy which he had begun.

ODE XVIII.

Now the star of day is high,
Fly, my girls, in pity fly.
Bring me wine in brimming urns
Cool my lip, it burns, it burns!
Sunned by the meridian fire,
Panting, languid I expire,
Give me all those humid flowers,
Drop them o'er my brow in showers.
Scarce a breathing chaplet now
Lives upon my feverish brow;
Every dewy rose I wear
Sheds its tears, and withers there.[1]
But to you, my burning heart,
What can now relief impart?
Can brimming bowl, or floweret's dew,
Cool the flame that scorches you?

[1] In the poem of Mr. Sheridan's, "Uncouth is this moss-covered grotto of stone," there is an idea very singularly coincident with this of Angerianus:—

  And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve
  Some lingering drops of the night-fallen dew:
  Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and they'll serve
  As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.

ODE XIX.[1]

Here recline you, gentle maid,
Sweet is this embowering shade;
Sweet the young, the modest trees,
Ruffled by the kissing breeze;
Sweet the little founts that weep,
Lulling soft the mind to sleep;
Hark! they whisper as they roll,
Calm persuasion to the soul;
Tell me, tell me, is not this
All a stilly scene of bliss?
"Who, my girl, would pass it by?
Surely neither you nor I."

[1] The description of this bower is so natural and animated, that we almost feel a degree of coolness and freshness while we peruse it.

ODE XX.[1]

One day the Muses twined the hands
Of infant Love with flowery bands;
And to celestial Beauty gave
The captive infant for her slave.
His mother comes, with many a toy,
To ransom her beloved boy;[2]
His mother sues, but all in vain,—
He ne'er will leave his chains again.
Even should they take his chains away,
The little captive still would stay.
"If this," he cries, "a bondage be,
Oh, who could wish for liberty?"

[1] The poet appears, in this graceful allegory, to describe the softening influence which poetry holds over the mind, in making it peculiarly susceptible to the impressions of beauty.

[2] In the first idyl of Moschus, Venus there proclaims the reward for her fugitive child:—

  On him, who the haunts of my Cupid can show,
  A kiss of the tenderest stamp I'll bestow;
  But he, who can bring back the urchin in chains,
  Shall receive even something more sweet for his pains.

ODE XXI.[1]

Observe when mother earth is dry,
She drinks the droppings of the sky;
And then the dewy cordial gives
To every thirsty plant that lives.
The vapors, which at evening weep,
Are beverage to the swelling deep;
And when the rosy sun appears,
He drinks the ocean's misty tears.
The moon too quaffs her paly stream
Of lustre, from the solar beam.
Then, hence with all your sober thinking!
Since Nature's holy law is drinking;
I'll make the laws of nature mine,
And pledge the universe in wine.

[1] Those critics who have endeavored to throw the chains of precision over the spirit of this beautiful trifle, require too much from Anacreontic philosophy. Among others, Gail very sapiently thinks that the poet uses the epithet [Greek: melainae], because black earth absorbs moisture more quickly than any other; and accordingly he indulges us with an experimental disquisition on the subject.—See Gail's Notes.

ODE XXII.

The Phrygian rock, that braves the storm,
Was once a weeping matron's form;[1]
And Progne, hapless, frantic maid,
Is now a swallow in the shade.
Oh! that a mirror's form were mine,
That I might catch that smile divine;
And like my own fond fancy be,
Reflecting thee, and only thee;
Or could I be the robe which holds
That graceful form within its folds;
Or, turned into a fountain, lave
Thy beauties in my circling wave.
Would I were perfume for thy hair,
To breathe my soul in fragrance there;
Or, better still, the zone, that lies
Close to thy breast, and feels its sighs![2]
Or even those envious pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow—
Yes, I would be a happy gem,
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh, any thing that touches thee;
Nay, sandals for those airy feet—
Even to be trod by them were sweet!

[1] The compliment of this ode is exquisitely delicate, and so singular for the period in which Anacreon lived, when the scale of love had not yet been graduated Into all its little progressive refinements, that if we were inclined to question the authenticity of the poem, we should find a much more plausible argument in the features of modern gallantry which it bears, than in any of those fastidious conjectures upon which some commentators have presumed so far.

[2] The women of Greece not only wore this zone, but condemned themselves to fasting, and made use of certain drugs and powders for the same purpose. To these expedients they were compelled, in consequence of their inelegant fashion of compressing the waist into a very narrow compass, which necessarily caused an excessive tumidity in the bosom. See "Dioscorides," lib. v.

ODE XXIII.

I often wish this languid lyre,
This warbler of my soul's desire,
Could raise the breath of song sublime,
To men of fame, in former time.
But when the soaring theme I try,
Along the chords my numbers die,
And whisper, with dissolving tone,
"Our sighs are given to love alone!"
Indignant at the feeble lay,
I tore the panting chords away,
Attuned them to a nobler swell,
And struck again the breathing shell;
In all the glow of epic fire,
To Hercules I wake the lyre,
But still its fainting sighs repeat,
"The tale of love alone is sweet!"
Then fare thee well, seductive dream,
That madest me follow Glory's theme;
For thou my lyre, and thou my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part;
And all that one has felt so well
The other shall as sweetly tell!

ODE XXIV.

To all that breathe the air of heaven,
Some boon of strength has Nature given.
In forming the majestic bull,
She fenced with wreathed horns his skull;
A hoof of strength she lent the steed,
And winged the timorous hare with speed.
She gave the lion fangs of terror,
And, o'er the ocean's crystal mirror,
Taught the unnumbered scaly throng
To trace their liquid path along;
While for the umbrage of the grove,
She plumed the warbling world of love.

To man she gave, in that proud hour,
The boon of intellectual power.
Then, what, oh woman, what, for thee,
Was left in Nature's treasury?
She gave thee beauty—mightier far
Than all the pomp and power of war.
Nor steel, nor fire itself hath power
Like woman, in her conquering hour.
Be thou but fair, mankind adore thee,
Smile, and a world is weak before thee![1]

[1] Longepierre's remark here is ingenious; "The Romans," says he, "were so convinced of the power of beauty, that they used a word implying strength in the place of the epithet beautiful".

ODE XXV.

Once in each revolving year,
Gentle bird! we find thee here.
When Nature wears her summer-vest,
Thou comest to weave thy simple nest;
But when the chilling winter lowers.
Again thou seekest the genial bowers
Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile,
Where sunny hours for ever smile.
And thus thy pinion rests and roves,—
Alas! unlike the swarm of Loves,
That brood within this hapless breast,
And never, never change their nest!
Still every year, and all the year,
They fix their fated dwelling here;
And some their infant plumage try,
And on a tender winglet fly;
While in the shell, impregned with fires,
Still lurk a thousand more desires;
Some from their tiny prisons peeping,
And some in formless embryo sleeping.
Thus peopled, like the vernal groves,
My breast resounds, with warbling Loves;
One urchin imps the other's feather,
Then twin-desires they wing together,
And fast as they thus take their flight,
Still other urchins spring to light.
But is there then no kindly art,
To chase these Cupids from my heart;
Ah, no! I fear, in sadness fear,
They will for ever nestle here!

ODE XXVI.

Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms,
Or tell the tale of Theban arms;
With other wars my song shall burn,
For other wounds my harp shall mourn.
'Twas not the crested warrior's dart,
That drank the current of my heart;
Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,
Have made this vanquished bosom bleed;
No—'twas from eyes of liquid blue,
A host of quivered Cupids flew;[1]
And now my heart all bleeding lies
Beneath that army of the eyes!

[1] The poets abound with conceits on the archery of the eyes, but few have turned the thought so naturally as Anacreon. Ronsard gives to the eyes of his mistress un petit camp d'amours.

ODE XXVII.

We read the flying courser's name
Upon his side, in marks of flame;
And, by their turbaned brows alone,
The warriors of the East are known.
But in the lover's glowing eyes,
The inlet to his bosom lies;
Through them we see the small faint mark,
Where Love has dropt his burning spark!

ODE XXVIII.

As, by his Lemnian forge's flame,
The husband of the Paphian dame
Moulded the glowing steel, to form
Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm;
And Venus, as he plied his art,
Shed honey round each new-made dart,
While Love, at hand, to finish all,
Tipped every arrow's point with gall;
It chanced the Lord of Battles came
To visit that deep cave of flame.
'Twas from the ranks of war he rushed,
His spear with many a life-drop blushed;
He saw the fiery darts, and smiled
Contemptuous at the archer-child.
"What!" said the urchin, "dost thou smile?
Here, hold this little dart awhile,
And thou wilt find, though swift of flight,
My bolts are not so feathery light."

  Mars took the shaft—and, oh, thy look,
Sweet Venus, when the shaft he took!—
Sighing, he felt the urchin's art,
And cried, in agony of heart,
"It is not light—I sink with pain!
Take—take thy arrow back again."
"No," said the child, "it must not be;
That little dart was made for thee!"

ODE XXIX.

Yes—loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love more painful still
But oh, it is the worst of pain,
To love and not be loved again!
Affection now has fled from earth,
Nor fire of genius, noble birth,
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile,
From beauty's cheek one favoring smile.
Gold is the woman's only theme,
Gold is the woman's only dream.
Oh! never be that wretch forgiven—
Forgive him not, indignant heaven!
Whose grovelling eyes could first adore,
Whose heart could pant for sordid ore.
Since that devoted thirst began,
Man has forgot to feel for man;
The pulse of social life is dead,
And all its fonder feelings fled!
War too has sullied Nature's charms,
For gold provokes the world to arms;
And oh! the worst of all its arts,
It renders asunder loving hearts.

ODE XXX.[1]

'Twas in a mocking dream of night—
I fancied I had wings as light
As a young birds, and flew as fleet;
While Love, around whose beauteous feet,
I knew not why, hung chains of lead,
Pursued me, as I trembling fled;
And, strange to say, as swift as thought,
Spite of my pinions, I was caught!
What does the wanton Fancy mean
By such a strange, illusive scene?
I fear she whispers to my breast,
That you, sweet maid, have stolen its rest;
That though my fancy, for a while,
Hath hung on many a woman's smile,
I soon dissolved each passing vow,
And ne'er was caught by love till now!

[1] Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet married very late in life. But I see nothing in the ode which alludes to matrimony, except it be the lead upon the feet of Cupid; and I agree in the opinion of Madame Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure to marry.

ODE XXXI.[1]

Armed with hyacinthine rod,
(Arms enough for such a god,)
Cupid bade me wing my pace,
And try with him the rapid race.
O'er many a torrent, wild and deep,
By tangled brake and pendent steep.
With weary foot I panting flew,
Till my brow dropt with chilly dew.
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying;
And now I thought the spark had fled,
When Cupid hovered o'er my head,
And fanning light his breezy pinion,
Rescued my soul from death's dominion;[2]
Then said, in accents half-reproving.
"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"

[1] The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love.

[2] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."—LA FOSSE.

ODE XXXII.[1]

Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this sweet hour of revelry
Young Love shall my attendant be—
Drest for the task, with tunic round
His snowy neck and shoulders bound,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!

  Oh, swift as wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal;
A scanty dust, to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.
Then wherefore waste the rose's bloom
Upon the cold, insensate tomb?
Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath,
Affect the still, cold sense of death?
Oh no; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:
But now, while every pulse is glowing,
Now let me breathe the balsam flowing;
Now let the rose, with blush of fire,
Upon my brow in sweets expire;
And bring the nymph whose eye hath power
To brighten even death's cold hour.
Yes, Cupid! ere my shade retire,
To join the blest elysian choir;
With wine, and love, and social cheer,
I'll make my own elysium here!

[1] We here have the poet, in his true attributes, reclining upon myrtles, with Cupid for his cup-bearer. Some interpreters have ruined the picture by making [Greek: Eros] the name of his slave. None but Love should fill the goblet of Anacreon. Sappho, in one of her fragments, has assigned this office to Venus.

  Hither, Venus, queen of kisses.
  This shall be the night of blisses;
  This the night, to friendship dear.
  Thou shalt be our Hebe here.
  Fill the golden brimmer high,
  Let it sparkle like thine eye;
  Bid the rosy current gush.
  Let it mantle like thy blush.
  Goddess, hast thou e'er above
  Seen a feast so rich in love?
  Not a soul that is not mine!
  Not a soul that is not thine!

ODE XXXIII.

'Twas noon of night, when round the pole
The sullen Bear is seen to roll;
And mortals, wearied with the day,
Are slumbering all their cares away;
An infant, at that dreary hour,
Came weeping to my silent bower,
And waked me with a piteous prayer,
To shield him from the midnight air.
"And who art thou," I waking cry,
"That bid'st my blissful visions fly?"
"Ah, gentle sire!" the infant said,
"In pity take me to thy shed;
Nor fear deceit; a lonely child
I wander o'er the gloomy wild.
Chill drops the rain, and not a ray
Illumes the drear and misty way!"

  I heard the baby's tale of woe:
I heard the bitter night-winds blow;
And sighing for his piteous fate,
I trimmed my lamp and oped the gate.
'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite,
His pinion sparkled through the night,
I knew him by his bow and dart;
I knew him by my fluttering heart.
Fondly I take him in, and raise
The dying embers' cheering blaze;
Press from his dank and clinging hair
The crystals of the freezing air,
And in my hand and bosom hold
His little fingers thrilling cold.

  And now the embers' genial ray,
Had warmed his anxious fears away;
"I pray thee," said the wanton child,
(My bosom trembled as he smiled,)
"I pray thee let me try my bow,
For through the rain I've wandered so,
That much I fear the midnight shower
Has injured its elastic power."
The fatal bow the urchin drew;
Swift from the string the arrow flew;
As swiftly flew as glancing flame,
And to my inmost spirit came!
"Fare thee well," I heard him say
As laughing wild he winged away,
"Fare thee well, for now I know
The rain has not relaxt my bow;
It still can send a thrilling dart,
As thou shalt own with all thy heart!"

ODE XXXIV.[1]

Oh thou, of all creation blest,
Sweet insect, that delight'st to rest
Upon the wild wood's leafy tops,
To drink the dew that morning drops,
And chirp thy song with such a glee,
That happiest kings may envy thee.
Whatever decks the velvet field,
Whate'er the circling seasons yield,
Whatever buds, whatever blows,
For thee it buds, for thee it grows.
Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear,
To him thy friendly notes are dear;
For thou art mild as matin dew;
And still, when summer's flowery hue
Begins to paint the bloomy plain,
We hear thy sweet prophetic strain;
Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear,
And bless the notes and thee revere!
The Muses love thy shrilly tone;
Apollo calls thee all his own;
'Twas he who gave that voice to thee,
'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.

  Unworn by age's dim decline,
The fadeless blooms of youth are thine.
Melodious insect, child of earth,
In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth;
Exempt from every weak decay,
That withers vulgar frames away;
With not a drop of blood to stain,
The current of thy purer vein;
So blest an age is past by thee,
Thou seem'st—a little deity!

[1] In a Latin ode addressed to the grasshopper, Rapin has preserved some of the thoughts of our author:—

  Oh thou, that on the grassy bed
  Which Nature's vernal hand has spread,
  Reclinest soft, and tunest thy song,
  The dewy herbs and leaves among!
  Whether thou lyest on springing flowers
  Drunk with the balmy morning-showers
  Or, etc.

ODE XXXV.[1]

Cupid once upon a bed
Of roses laid his weary head;
Luckless urchin not to see
Within the leaves a slumbering bee;
The bee awaked—with anger wild
The bee awaked, and stung the child.
Loud and piteous are his cries;
To Venus quick he runs, he flies;
"Oh mother!—I am wounded through—
I die with pain—in sooth I do!
Stung by some little angry thing,
Some serpent on a tiny wing—
A bee it was—for once, I know,
I heard a rustic call it so."
Thus he spoke, and she the while,
Heard him with a soothing smile;
Then said, "My infant, if so much
Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch,
How must the heart, ah, Cupid be,
The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"

[1] Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyl; but is very inferior, I think, to his original, in delicacy of point and naïveté of expression. Spenser, in one of his smaller compositions, has sported more diffusely on the same subject. The poem to which I allude begins thus:—

  Upon a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbering
    All in his mother's lap;
  A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murmuring,
    About him flew by hap, etc.

ODE XXXVI.[1]

If hoarded gold possest the power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the hand of death
A little span, a moment's breath,
How I would love the precious ore!
And every hour should swell my store;
That when death came, with shadowy pinion,
To waft me to his bleak dominion,
I might, by bribes, my doom delay,
And bid him call some distant day.
But, since not all earth's golden store
Can buy for us one bright hour more,
Why should we vainly mourn our fate,
Or sigh at life's uncertain date?
Nor wealth nor grandeur can illume
The silent midnight of the tomb.
No—give to others hoarded treasures—
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures—
The goblet rich, the board of friends,
Whose social souls the goblet blends;[2]
And mine, while yet I've life to live,
Those joys that love alone can give.

[1] Fontenelle has translated this ode, in his dialogue between Anacreon and Aristotle in the shades, where, on weighing the merits of both these personages, he bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet.

[2] The goblet rich, the board of friends. Whose social soul the goblet blends.

This communion Of friendship, which sweetened the bowl of Anacreon, has not been forgotten by the author of the following scholium, where the blessings of life are enumerated with proverbial simplicity:

  Of mortal blessing here the first is health,
    And next those charms by which the eye we move;
  The third is wealth, unwounding guiltless wealth,
    And then, sweet intercourse with those we love!

ODE XXXVII.

'Twas night, and many a circling bowl
Had deeply warmed my thirsty soul;
As lulled in slumber I was laid,
Bright visions o'er my fancy played.
With maidens, blooming as the dawn,
I seemed to skim the opening lawn;
Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew,
We flew, and sported as we flew!

  Some ruddy striplings, who lookt on—
With cheeks that like the wine-god's shone,
Saw me chasing, free and wild,
These blooming maids, and slyly smiled;
Smiled indeed with wanton glee,
Though none could doubt they envied me.
And still I flew—and now had caught
The panting nymphs, and fondly thought
To gather from each rosy lip
A kiss that Jove himself might sip—
When sudden all my dream of joys,
Blushing nymphs and laughing boys,
All were gone!—"Alas!" I said,
Sighing for the illusion fled,
"Again, sweet sleep, that scene restore,
Oh! let me dream it o'er and o'er!"[1]

[1] Dr. Johnson, in his preface to Shakespeare, animadverting upon the commentators of that poet, who pretended, in every little coincidence of thought, to detect an imitation of some ancient poet, alludes in the following words to the line of Anacreon before us: "I have been told that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream says, 'I cried to sleep again,' the author imitates Anacreon, who had, like any other man, the same wish on the same occasion."

ODE XXXVIII.

Let us drain the nectared bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectared bowl, the choral swell;
The god who taught the sons of earth
To thread the tangled dance of mirth;
Him, who was nurst with infant Love,
And cradled in the Paphian grove;
Him, that the Snowy Queen of Charms
So oft has fondled in her arms.
Oh 'tis from him the transport flows,
Which sweet intoxication knows;
With him, the brow forgets its gloom,
And brilliant graces learn to bloom.

  Behold!—my boys a goblet bear,
Whose sparkling foam lights up the air.
Where are now the tear, the sigh?
To the winds they fly, they fly!
Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking,
Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!
Say, can the tears we lend to thought
In life's account avail us aught?
Can we discern with all our lore,
The path we've yet to journey o'er?
Alas, alas, in ways so dark,
'Tis only wine can strike a spark!

Then let me quaff the foamy tide,
And through the dance meandering glide;
Let me imbibe the spicy breath
Of odors chafed to fragrant death;
Or from the lips of love inhale
A more ambrosial, richer gale!
To hearts that court the phantom Care,
Let him retire and shroud him there;
While we exhaust the nectared bowl,
And swell the choral song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectared bowl, the choral swell!

ODE XXXIX.

How I love the festive boy,
Tripping through the dance of joy!
How I love the mellow sage,
Smiling through the veil of age!
And whene'er this man of years
In the dance of joy appears,
Snows may o'er his head be flung,
But his heart—his heart is young.

ODE XL.

I know that Heaven hath sent me here,
To run this mortal life's career;
The scenes which I have journeyed o'er,
Return no more—alas! no more!
And all the path I've yet to go,
I neither know nor ask to know.
Away, then, wizard Care, nor think
Thy fetters round this soul to link;
Never can heart that feels with me
Descend to be a slave to thee!
And oh! before the vital thrill,
Which trembles at my heart is still,
I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers,
And gild with bliss my fading hours;
Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom,
And Venus dance me to the tomb!

ODE XLI.

When Spring adorns the dewy scene,
How sweet to walk the velvet green,
And hear the west wind's gentle sighs,
As o'er the scented mead it flies!
How sweet to mark the pouting vine,
Ready to burst in tears of wine;
And with some maid, who breathes but love,
To walk, at noontide, through the grove,
Or sit in some cool, green recess—
Oh, is this not true happiness?

ODE XLII.[1]

Yes, be the glorious revel mine,
Where humor sparkles from the wine.
Around me, let the youthful choir
Respond to my enlivening lyre;
And while the red cup foams along,
Mingle in soul as well as song.
Then, while I sit, with flowerets crowned,
To regulate the goblets round.
Let but the nymph, our banquet's pride,
Be seated smiling by my side,
And earth has not a gift or power
That I would envy, in that hour.
Envy!—oh never let its blight
Touch the gay hearts met here tonight.
Far hence be slander's sidelong wounds,
Nor harsh dispute, nor discord's sounds
Disturb a scene, where all should be
Attuned to peace and harmony.

  Come, let us hear the harp's gay note
Upon the breeze inspiring float,
While round us, kindling into love,
Young maidens through the light dance move.
Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace,
Sure such a life should never cease!

[1] The character of Anacreon is here very strikingly depicted. His love of social, harmonized pleasures, is expressed with a warmth, amiable and endearing.

ODE XLIII.

While our rosy fillets shed
Freshness o'er each fervid head,
With many a cup and many a smile
The festal moments we beguile.
And while the harp, impassioned flings
Tuneful rapture from its strings,[1]
Some airy nymph, with graceful bound,
Keeps measure to the music's sound;
Waving, in her snowy hand,
The leafy Bacchanalian wand,
Which, as the tripping wanton flies,
Trembles all over to her sighs.
A youth the while, with loosened hair,
Floating on the listless air,
Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone,
A tale of woe, alas, his own;
And oh, the sadness in his sigh.
As o'er his lips the accents die!
Never sure on earth has been
Half so bright, so blest a scene.
It seems as Love himself had come
To make this spot his chosen home;—[2]
And Venus, too, with all her wiles,
And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles,
All, all are here, to hail with me
The Genius of Festivity!

[1] Respecting the barbiton a host of authorities may be collected, which, after all, leave us ignorant of the nature of the instrument. There is scarcely any point upon which we are so totally uninformed as the music of the ancients. The authors extant upon the subject are, I imagine, little understood; and certainly if one of their moods was a progression by quarter-tones, which we are told was the nature of the enharmonic scale, simplicity was by no means the characteristic of their melody; for this is a nicety of progression of which modern music is not susceptible. The invention of the barbiton is, by Athenaeus, attributed to Anacreon.

[2] The introduction of these deities to the festival is merely allegorical. Madame Dacier thinks that the poet describes a masquerade, where these deities were personated by the company in masks. The translation will conform with either idea.

ODE XLIV.[1]

Buds of roses, virgin flowers,
Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers,
In the bowl of Bacchus steep,
Till with crimson drops they weep.
Twine the rose, the garland twine,
Every leaf distilling wine;
Drink and smile, and learn to think
That we were born to smile and drink.
Rose, thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower;
Rose, thou art the fondest child
Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.
Even the Gods, who walk the sky,
Are amorous of thy scented sigh.
Cupid, too, in Paphian shades,
His hair with rosy fillets braids,
When with the blushing sister Graces,
The wanton winding dance he traces.
Then bring me, showers of roses bring,
And shed them o'er me while I sing.
Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine,
Wreathing my brow with rose and vine,
I lead some bright nymph through the dance,
Commingling soul with every glance!

[1] This spirited poem is a eulogy on the rose; and again, in the fifty- fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the praises of that flower. In a fragment of Sappho, in the romance of Achilles Tatius, to which Barnes refers us, the rose is fancifully styled "the eye of flowers;" and the same poetess, in another fragment, calls the favors of the Muse "the roses of the Pleria."

ODE XLV.

Within this goblet, rich and deep,
I cradle all my woes to sleep.
Why should we breathe the sigh of fear,
Or pour the unavailing tear?
For death will never heed the sigh,
Nor soften at the tearful eye;
And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep,
Must all alike be sealed in sleep.
Then let us never vainly stray,
In search of thorns, from pleasure's way;
But wisely quaff the rosy wave,
Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave;
And in the goblet, rich and deep,
Cradle our crying woes to sleep.

ODE XLVI.[1]

Behold, the young, the rosy Spring,
Gives to the breeze her scented wing:
While virgin Graces, warm with May;
Fling roses o'er her dewy way.
The murmuring billows of the deep
Have languished into silent sleep;
And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave
Their plumes in the reflecting wave;
While cranes from hoary winter fly
To flutter in a kinder sky.
Now the genial star of day
Dissolves the murky clouds away;
And cultured field, and winding stream,
Are freshly glittering in his beam.

  Now the earth prolific swells
With leafy buds and flowery bells;
Gemming shoots the olive twine,
Clusters ripe festoon the vine;
All along the branches creeping,
Through the velvet foliage peeping,
Little infant fruits we see,
Nursing into luxury.

[1] The fastidious affectation of some commentators has denounced this ode as spurious. Degen pronounces the four last lines to be the patch-work of some miserable versificator, and Brunck condemns the whole ode. It appears to me, on the contrary, to be elegantly graphical: full of delicate expressions and luxuriant imagery.

ODE XLVII.

'Tis true, my fading years decline,
Yet can I quaff the brimming wine,
As deep as any stripling fair,
Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear;
And if, amidst the wanton crew,
I'm called to wind the dance's clue,
Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand,
Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,
But brandishing a rosy flask,
The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask![1]

  Let those, who pant for Glory's charms,
Embrace her in the field of arms;
While my inglorious, placid soul
Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl.
Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,
And bathe me in its brimming wave.
For though my fading years decay,
Though manhood's prime hath past away,
Like old Silenus, sire divine,
With blushes borrowed from my wine.
I'll wanton mid the dancing train,
And live my follies o'er again!

[1] Phornutus assigns as a reason for the consecration of the thyrsus to Bacchus, that inebriety often renders the support of a stick very necessary.

ODE XLVIII.

When my thirsty soul I steep,
Every sorrow's lulled to sleep.
Talk of monarchs! I am then
Richest, happiest, first of men;
Careless o'er my cup I sing,
Fancy makes me more than king;
Gives me wealthy Croesus' store,
Can I, can I wish for more?
On my velvet couch reclining,
Ivy leaves my brow entwining,[1]
While my soul expands with glee,
What are kings and crowns to me?
If before my feet they lay,
I would spurn them all away;
Arm ye, arm ye, men of might,
Hasten to the sanguine fight;
But let me, my budding vine!
Spill no other blood than thine.
Yonder brimming goblet see,
That alone shall vanquish me—
Who think it better, wiser far
To fall in banquet than in war,

[1] "The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus [says Montfaucon], because he formerly lay hid under that tree, or as others will have it, because its leaves resemble those of the vine." Other reasons for its consecration, and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may be found in Longepierre, Barnes, etc.

ODE XLIX.

When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy,
The rosy harbinger of joy,
Who, with the sunshine of the bowl,
Thaws the winter of our soul—
When to my inmost core he glides,
And bathes it with his ruby tides,
A flow of joy, a lively heat,
Fires my brain, and wings my feet,
Calling up round me visions known
To lovers of the bowl alone.

  Sing, sing of love, let music's sound
In melting cadence float around,
While, my young Venus, thou and I
Responsive to its murmurs sigh.
Then, waking from our blissful trance,
Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.

ODE L.[1]

When wine I quaff, before my eyes
Dreams of poetic glory rise;[2]
And freshened by the goblet's dews,
My soul invokes the heavenly Muse,
When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er;
I think of doubts and fears no more;
But scatter to the railing wind
Each gloomy phantom of the mind.
When I drink wine, the ethereal boy,
Bacchus himself, partakes my joy;
And while we dance through vernal bowers,
Whose every breath comes fresh from flowers,
In wine he makes my senses swim,
Till the gale breathes of naught but him!

  Again I drink,—and, lo, there seems
A calmer light to fill my dreams;
The lately ruffled wreath I spread
With steadier hand around my head;
Then take the lyre, and sing "how blest
The life of him who lives at rest!"
But then comes witching wine again,
With glorious woman in its train;
And, while rich perfumes round me rise,
That seem the breath of woman's sighs,
Bright shapes, of every hue and form.
Upon my kindling fancy swarm,
Till the whole world of beauty seems
To crowd into my dazzled dreams!
When thus I drink, my heart refines,
And rises as the cup declines;
Rises in the genial flow,
That none but social spirits know,
When, with young revellers, round the bowl,
The old themselves grow young in soul!
Oh, when I drink, true joy is mine,
There's bliss in every drop of wine.
All other blessings I have known,
I scarcely dared to call my own;
But this the Fates can ne'er destroy,
Till death o'ershadows all my joy.

[1] Faber thinks this ode spurious; but, I believe, he is singular in his opinion. It has all the spirit of our author. Like the wreath which he presented in the dream, "it smells of Anacreon."

[2] Anacreon is not the only one [says Longepierre] whom wine has inspired with poetry. We find an epigram in the first book of the "Anthologia," which begins thus:—

  If with water you fill up your glasses,
    You'll never write anything wise;
  For wine's the true horse of Parnassus.
    Which carries a bard to the skies!

ODE LI.

Fly not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely wanton! fly not so.
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though youth's brilliant flush be thine,
Still I'm doomed to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!
See, in yonder flowery braid,
Culled for thee, my blushing maid,[1]
How the rose, of orient glow,
Mingles with the lily's snow;
Mark, how sweet their tints agree,
Just, my girl, like thee and me!

[1] In the same manner that Anacreon pleads for the whiteness of his locks, from the beauty of the color in garlands, a shepherd, in Theocritus, endeavors to recommend his black hair.

ODE LII.[1]

Away, away, ye men of rules,
What have I do with schools?
They'd make me learn, they'd make me think,
But would they make me love and drink?
Teach me this, and let me swim
My soul upon the goblet's brim;
Teach me this, and let me twine
Some fond, responsive heart to mine,
For, age begins to blanch my brow,
I've time for naught but pleasure now.

  Fly, and cool, my goblet's glow
At yonder fountain's gelid flow;
I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink
This soul to slumber as I drink.
Soon, too soon, my jocund slave,
You'll deck your master's grassy grave;
And there's an end—for ah, you know
They drink but little wine below!

[1] "This is doubtless the work of a more modern poet than Anacreon; for at the period when he lived rhetoricians were not known."—DEGEN.

Though this ode is found in the Vatican manuscript, I am much inclined to agree in this argument against its authenticity: for though the dawnings of the art of rhetoric might already have appeared, the first who gave it any celebrity was. Corax of Syracuse, and he flourished in the century after Anacreon.

ODE LIII.

When I behold the festive train
Of dancing youth, I'm young again!
Memory wakes her magic trance,
And wings me lightly through the dance.
Come, Cybeba, smiling maid!
Cull the flower and twine the braid;
Bid the blush of summer's rose
Burn upon my forehead's snows;
And let me, while the wild and young
Trip the mazy dance along,
Fling my heap of years away,
And be as wild, as young as they.
Hither haste, some cordial, soul!
Help to my lips the brimming bowl;
And you shall see this hoary sage
Forget at once his locks and age.
He still can chant the festive hymn,
He still can kiss the goblet's brim;[1]
As deeply quaff, as largely fill,
And play the fool right nobly still.

[1] Wine is prescribed by Galen, as an excellent medicine for old men: "Quod frigidos et humbribus expletos calefaciut," etc.; but Nature was Anacreon's physician.

There is a proverb in Eriphus, as quoted by Athenaeus, which says, "that wine makes an old man dance, whether he will or not."

ODE. LIV.[1]

Methinks, the pictured bull we see
Is amorous Jove—it must be he!
How fondly blest he seems to bear
That fairest of Phoenician fair!
How proud he breasts the foamy tide,
And spurns the billowy surge aside!
Could any beast of vulgar vein,
Undaunted thus defy the main?
No: he descends from climes above,
He looks the God, he breathes of Jove!

[1] "This ode is written upon., a picture which represented the rape, of Europa."—MADAME DACIER.

It may probably have been a description of one of those coins, which the Sidonians struck off in honor of Europa, representing a woman carried across the sea by a bull. In the little treatise upon the goddess of Syria, attributed very' falsely to Lucian, there is mention of this coin, and of a temple dedicated by the Sidonians to Astarte, whom some, it appears, confounded with Europa.

ODE LV.[1]

While we invoke the wreathed spring,
Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing;
Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers,
Whose breath perfumes the Olympian bowers;
Whose virgin blush, of chastened dye,
Enchants so much our mortal eye.
When pleasure's spring-tide season glows.
The Graces love to wreathe the rose;
And Venus, in its fresh-blown leaves,
An emblem of herself perceives.
Oft hath the poet's magic tongue
The rose's fair luxuriance sung;
And long the Muses, heavenly maids,
Have reared it in their tuneful shades.
When, at the early glance of morn,
It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,
'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence
To cull the timid floweret thence,
And wipe with tender hand away
The tear that on its blushes lay!
'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems,
Yet dropping with Aurora's gems,
And fresh inhale the spicy sighs
That from the weeping buds arise.

  When revel reigns, when mirth is high,
And Bacchus beams in every eye,
Our rosy fillets scent exhale,
And fill with balm the fainting gale.
There's naught in nature bright or gay,
Where roses do not shed their ray.
When morning paints the orient skies,
Her fingers burn with roseate dyes;[2]
Young nymphs betray; the Rose's hue,
O'er whitest arms it kindles thro'.
In Cytherea's form it glows,
And mingles with the living snows.

  The rose distils a healing balm,
The beating pulse of pain to calm;
Preserves the cold inurnèd clay,[3]
And mocks the vestige of decay:
And when, at length, in pale decline,
Its florid beauties fade and pine,
Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath
Diffuses odor even in death!
Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung?
Listen,—for thus the tale is sung.
When, humid, from the silvery stream,
Effusing beauty's warmest beam,
Venus appeared, in flushing hues,
Mellowed by ocean's briny dews;
When, in the starry courts above,
The pregnant brain of mighty Jove
Disclosed the nymph of azure glance,
The nymph who shakes the martial lance;—
Then, then, in strange eventful hour,
The earth produced an infant flower,
Which sprung, in blushing glories drest.
And wantoned o'er its parent breast.
The gods beheld this brilliant birth,
And hailed the Rose, the boon of earth!
With nectar drops, a ruby tide,
The sweetly orient buds they dyed,[4]
And bade them bloom, the flowers divine
Of him who gave the glorious vine;
And bade them on the spangled thorn
Expand their bosoms to the morn.

[1] This ode is a brilliant panegyric on the rose. "All antiquity [says Barnes] has produced nothing more beautiful."

From the idea of peculiar excellence, which the ancients attached to this flower, arose a pretty proverbial expression, used by Aristophanes, according to Suidas "You have spoken roses."

[2] In the original here, he enumerates the many epithets of beauty, borrowed from roses, which were used by the poets. We see that poets were dignified in Greece with the title of sages: even the careless Anacreon, who lived but for love and voluptuousness, was called by Plato the wise Anacreon—fuit haec sapienta quondam.

[3] He here alludes to the use of the rose in embalming; and, perhaps (as Barnes thinks), to the rosy unguent with which Venus anointed the corpse of Hector.

[4] The author of the "Pervigilium Veneris" (a poem attributed to Catullus, the style of which appears to me to have all the labored luxuriance of a much later period) ascribes the tincture of the rose to the blood from the wound of Adonis.

ODE LVI.

He, who instructs the youthful crew
To bathe them in the brimmer's dew,
And taste, uncloyed by rich excesses,
All the bliss that wine possesses;
He, who inspires the youth to bound
Elastic through the dance's round,—
Bacchus, the god again is here,
And leads along the blushing year;
The blushing year with vintage teems,
Ready to shed those cordial streams,
Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth,
Illuminate the sons of earth![1]

Then, when the ripe and vermil wine,—
Blest infant of the pregnant vine,
Which now in mellow clusters swells,—
Oh! when it bursts its roseate cells,
Brightly the joyous stream shall flow,
To balsam every mortal woe!
None shall be then cast down or weak,
For health and joy shall light each cheek;
No heart will then desponding sigh,
For wine shall bid despondence fly.
Thus—till another autumn's glow
Shall bid another vintage flow.

[1] Madame Dacier thinks that the poet here had the nepenthe of Homer in his mind. Odyssey, lib. iv. This nepenthe was a something of exquisite charm, infused by Helen into the wine of her guests, which had the power of dispelling every anxiety. A French writer, De Mere, conjectures that this spell, which made the bowl so beguiling, was the charm of Helen's conversation. See Bayle, art. Helène.

ODE LVII[1]

Whose was the artist hand that spread
Upon this disk the ocean's bed?
And, in a flight of fancy, high
As aught on earthly wing can fly,
Depicted thus, in semblance warm,
The Queen of Love's voluptuous form
Floating along the silvery sea
In beauty's naked majesty!
Oh! he hath given the enamoured sight
A witching banquet of delight,
Where, gleaming through the waters clear,
Glimpses of undreamt charms appear,
And all that mystery loves to screen,
Fancy, like Faith, adores unseen.[2]

Light as a leaf, that on the breeze
Of summer skims the glassy seas,
She floats along the ocean's breast,
Which undulates in sleepy rest;
While stealing on, she gently pillows
Her bosom on the heaving billows.
Her bosom, like the dew-washed rose,
Her neck, like April's sparkling snows,
Illume the liquid path she traces,
And burn within the stream's embraces.
Thus on she moves, in languid pride,
Encircled by the azure tide,
As some fair lily o'er a bed
Of violets bends its graceful head.

Beneath their queen's inspiring glance,
The dolphins o'er the green sea dance,
Bearing in triumph young Desire,
And infant Love with smiles of fire!
While, glittering through the silver waves,
The tenants of the briny caves
Around the pomp their gambols play,
And gleam along the watery way.

[1] This ode is a very animated description of a picture of Venus on a discus, which represented the goddess in her first emergence from the waves. About two centuries after our poet wrote, the pencil of the artist Apelles embellished this subject, in his famous painting of the Venus Anadyomene, the model of which, as Pliny informs us, was the beautiful Campaspe, given to him by Alexander; though, according to Natalis Comes, lib. vii. cap. 16., it was Phryne who sat to Apelles for the face and breast of this Venus.

[2] The picture here has all the delicate character of the semi-reducta Venus, and affords a happy specimen of what the poetry of passion ought to be—glowing but through a veil, and stealing upon the heart from concealment. Few of the ancients have attained this modesty of description, which, like the golden cloud that hung over Jupiter and Juno, is impervious to every beam but that of fancy.

ODE LVIII.

When Gold, as fleet as zephyr's' pinion,
Escapes like any faithless minion,[1]
And flies me (as he flies me ever),[2]
Do I pursue him? never, never!
No, let the false deserter go,
For who would court his direst foe?
But when I feel my lightened mind
No more by grovelling gold confined,
Then loose I all such clinging cares,
And cast them to the vagrant airs.
Then feel I, too, the Muse's spell,
And wake to life the dulcet shell,
Which, roused once more, to beauty sings,
While love dissolves along the strings!

But, scarcely has my heart been taught
How little Gold deserves a thought,
When, lo! the slave returns once more,
And with him wafts delicious store
Of racy wine, whose genial art
In slumber seals the anxious heart.
Again he tries my soul to sever
From love and song, perhaps forever!

Away, deceiver! why pursuing
Ceaseless thus my heart's undoing?
Sweet is the song of amorous fire.
Sweet the sighs that thrill the lyre;
Oh! sweeter far than all the gold
Thy wings can waft, thy mines can hold.
Well do I know thy arts, thy wiles—
They withered Love's young wreathèd smiles;
And o'er his lyre such darkness shed,
I thought its soul of song was fled!
They dashed the wine-cup, that, by him,
Was filled with kisses to the brim.[3]
Go—fly to haunts of sordid men,
But come not near the bard again.
Thy glitter in the Muse's shade,
Scares from her bower the tuneful maid;
And not for worlds would I forego
That moment of poetic glow,
When my full soul, in Fancy's stream,
Pours o'er the lyre, its swelling theme.
Away, away! to worldlings hence,
Who feel not this diviner sense;
Give gold to those who love that pest,—
But leave the poet poor and blest.

[1] There is a kind of pun in these words, as Madame Dacier has already remarked; for Chrysos, which signifies gold, was also a frequent name for a slave. In one of Lucian's dialogues, there is, I think, a similar play upon the word, where the followers of Chrysippus are called golden fishes. The puns of the ancients are, in general, even more vapid than our own; some of the best are those recorded of Diogenes.

[2] This grace of iteration has already been taken notice of. Though sometimes merely a playful beauty, it is peculiarly expressive of impassioned sentiment, and we may easily believe that it was one of the many sources of that energetic sensibility which breathed through the style of Sappho.

[3] Horace has Desiderique temperare poculum, not figuratively, however, like Anacreon, but importng the love-philtres of the witches. By "cups of kisses" our poet may allude to a favorite gallantry among the ancients, of drinking when the lips of their mistresses had touched the brim;—

"Or leave a kiss within the cup And I'll not ask for wine."

As In Ben Jonson's translation from Philostratus; and Lucian has a conceit upon the same idea, "that you may at once both drink and kiss."

ODE LIX.

Ripened by the solar beam,
Now the ruddy clusters teem,
In osier baskets borne along
By all the festal vintage throng
Of rosy youths and virgins fair,
Ripe as the melting fruits they bear.
Now, now they press the pregnant grapes,
And now the captive stream escapes,
In fervid tide of nectar gushing.
And for its bondage proudly blushing
While, round the vat's impurpled brim,
The choral song, the vintage hymn
Of rosy youths and virgins fair,
Steals on the charmed and echoing air.
Mark, how they drink, with all their eyes,
The orient tide that sparkling flies,
The infant Bacchus, born in mirth,
While Love stands by, to hail the birth.

When he, whose verging years decline
As deep into the vale as mine,
When he inhales the vintage-cup,
His feet, new-winged, from earth spring up,
And as he dances, the fresh air
Plays whispering through his silvery hair.
Meanwhile young groups whom love invites,
To joys even rivalling wine's delights,
Seek, arm in arm, the shadowy grove,
And there, in words and looks of love,
Such as fond lovers look and say,
Pass the sweet moonlight hours away.

ODE LX.[1]

Awake to life, my sleeping shell,
To Phoebus let thy numbers swell;
And though no glorious prize be thine,
No Pythian wreath around thee twine,
Yet every hour is glory's hour
To him who gathers wisdom's flower.
Then wake thee from thy voiceless slumbers,
And to the soft and Phrygian numbers,
Which, tremblingly, my lips repeat,
Send echoes, from thy chord as sweet.
'Tis thus the swan, with fading notes,
Down the Cayster's current floats,
While amorous breezes linger round,
And sigh responsive sound for sound.

Muse of the Lyre! illume my dream,
Thy Phoebus is my fancy's theme;
And hallowed is the harp I bear,
And hallowed is the wreath I wear,
Hallowed by him, the god of lays,
Who modulates the choral maze.
I sing the love which Daphne twined
Around the godhead's yielding mind;
I sing the blushing Daphne's flight
From this ethereal son of Light;
And how the tender, timid maid
Flew trembling to the kindly shade.
Resigned a form, alas, too fair,
Arid grew a verdant laurel there;
Whose leaves, with sympathetic thrill,
In terror seemed to tremble still!
The god pursued, with winged desire;
And when his hopes were all on fire,
And when to clasp the nymph he thought,
A lifeless tree was all he caught;
And 'stead of sighs that pleasure heaves,
Heard but the west-wind in the leaves!

But, pause, my soul, no more, no more—
Enthusiast, whither do I soar?
This sweetly-maddening dream of soul
Hath hurried me beyond the goal.
Why should I sing the mighty darts
Which fly to wound celestial hearts,
When ah, the song, with sweeter tone,
Can tell the darts that wound my own?
Still be Anacreon, still inspire
The descant of the Teian lyre:
Still let the nectared numbers float
Distilling love in every note!
And when some youth, whose glowing soul
Has felt the Paphian star's control,
When he the liquid lays shall hear,
His heart will flutter to his ear,
And drinking there of song divine,
Banquet on intellectual wine![2]

[1] This hymn to Apollo is supposed not to have been written by Anacreon; and it is undoubtedly rather a sublimer flight than the Teian wing is accustomed to soar. But in a poet of whose works so small a proportion has reached us, diversity of style is by no means a safe criterion. If we knew Horace but as a satirist, should we easily believe there could dwell such animation in his lyre? Suidas says that our poet wrote hymns, and this perhaps is one of them. We can perceive in what an altered and imperfect state his works are at present, when we find a scholiast upon Horace citing an ode from the third book of Anacreon.

[2] Here ends the last of the odes in the Vatican MS., whose authority helps to confirm the genuine antiquity of them all, though a few have stolen among the number, which we may hesitate in attributing to Anacreon.

ODE LXI.[1]

Youth's endearing charms are fled;
Hoary locks deform my head;
Bloomy graces, dalliance gay,
All the flowers of life decay.[2]
Withering age begins to trace
Sad memorials o'er my face;
Time has shed its sweetest bloom
All the future must be gloom.
This it is that sets me sighing;
Dreary is the thought of dying![3]
Lone and dismal is the road,
Down to Pluto's dark abode;
And, when once the journey's o'er,
Ah! we can return no more!

[1] The intrusion of this melancholy ode, among the careless levities of our poet, reminds us of the skeletons which the Egyptians used to hang up in the banquet-rooms, to inculcate a thought of mortality even amidst the dissipations of mirth. If it were not for the beauty of its numbers, the Teian Muse should disown this ode.

[2] Horace often, with feeling and elegance, deplores the fugacity of human enjoyments.

[3] Regnier, a libertine French poet, has written some sonnets on the approach of death, full of gloomy and trembling repentance. Chaulieu, however, supports more consistently the spirit of the Epicurean philosopher. See his poem, addressed to the Marquis de Lafare.

ODE LXII.[1]

Fill me, boy, as deep a draught,
As e'er was filled, as e'er was quaffed;
But let the water amply flow,
To cool the grape's intemperate glow;[2]
Let not the fiery god be single,
But with the nymphs in union mingle.
For though the bowl's the grave of sadness,
Ne'er let it be the birth of madness.
No, banish from our board tonight
The revelries of rude delight;
To Scythians leave these wild excesses,
Ours be the joy that soothes and blesses!
And while the temperate bowl we wreathe,
In concert let our voices breathe,
Beguiling every hour along
With harmony of soul and song.

[1] This ode consists of two fragments, which are to be found in Athenaeus, book x., and which Barnes, from the similarity of their tendency, has combined into one. I think this a very justifiable liberty, and have adopted it in some other fragments of our poet.

[2] It was Amphictyon who first taught the Greeks to mix water with their wine; in commemoration of which circumstance they erected altars to Bacchus and the nymphs.

ODE LXIII.[1]

To Love, the soft and blooming child,
I touch the harp in descant wild;
To Love, the babe of Cyprian bowers,
The boy, who breathes and blushes flowers;
To Love, for heaven and earth adore him,
And gods and mortals bow before him!

[1] "This fragment is preserved in Clemens Alexandrinus, Storm, lib. vi. and In Arsenius, Collect. Graec."—BARNES.

It appears to have been the opening of a hymn in praise of Love.

ODE LXIV.[1]

Haste thee, nymph, whose well-aimed spear
Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer!
Dian, Jove's immortal child,
Huntress of the savage wild!
Goddess with the sun-bright hair!
Listen to a people's prayer.
Turn, to Lethe's river turn,
There thy vanquished people mourn![2]
Come to Lethe's wavy shore,
Tell them they shall mourn no more.
Thine their hearts, their altars thine;
Must they, Dian—must they pine?

[1] This hymn to Diana is extant in Hephaestion. There is an anecdote of our poet, which has led some to doubt whether he ever wrote any odes of this kind. It is related by the Scholiast upon Pindar (Isthmionic. od. ii. v. 1. as cited by Barnes) that Anaecreon being asked why he addressed all his hymns to women, and none to the deities? answered, "Because women are my deities."

I have assumed, it will be seen, in reporting this anecdote, the same liberty which I have thought it right to take in translating some of the odes; and it were to be wished that these little infidelities were always allowable in interpreting the writings of the ancients.

[2] Lethe, a river of Iona, according to Strabo, falling into the Meander. In its neighborhood was the city called Magnesia, in favor of whose inhabitants our poet is supposed to have addressed this supplication to Diana. It was written (as Madame Dacier conjectures) on the occasion of some battle, in which the Magnesians had been defeated.

ODE LXV.[1]

Like some wanton filly sporting,
Maid Of Thrace, thou flyest my courting.
Wanton filly! tell me why
Thou trip'st away, with scornful eye,
And seem'st to think my doating heart
Is novice in the bridling art?
Believe me, girl, it is not so;
Thou'lt find this skilful hand can throw
The reins around that tender form,
However wild, however warm.
Yes—trust me I can tame thy force,
And turn and wind thee in the course.
Though, wasting now thy careless hours,
Thou sport amid the herbs and flowers,
Soon shalt thou feel the rein's control,
And tremble at the wished-for goal!

[1] This ode, which is addressed to some Thracian girl, exists in Heraclides, and has been imitated very frequently by Horace, as all the annotators have remarked. Madame Dacier rejects the allegory, which runs so obviously through the poem, and supposes it to have been addressed to a young mare belonging to Polycrates.

Pierius, in the fourth book of his "Hieroglyphics," cites this ode, and informs us that the horse was the hieroglyphical emblem of pride.

ODE LXVI.[1]

To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine,
Fairest of all that fairest shine;
To thee, who rulest with darts of fire
This world of mortals, young Desire!
And oh! thou nuptial Power, to thee
Who bearest of life the guardian key,
Breathing my soul in fervent praise,
And weaving wild my votive lays,
For thee, O Queen! I wake the lyre,
For thee, thou blushing young Desire,
And oh! for thee, thou nuptial Power,
Come, and illume this genial hour.

  Look on thy bride, too happy boy,
And while thy lambent glance of joy
Plays over all her blushing charms,
Delay not, snatch her to thine arms,
Before the lovely, trembling prey,
Like a young birdling, wing away!
Turn, Stratocles, too happy youth,
Dear to the Queen of amorous truth,
And dear to her, whose yielding zone
Will soon resign her all thine own.
Turn to Myrilla, turn thine eye,
Breathe to Myrilla, breathe thy sigh.
To those bewitching beauties turn;
For thee they blush, for thee they burn.

  Not more the rose, the queen of flowers,
Outblushes all the bloom of bowers
Than she unrivalled grace discloses,
The sweetest rose, where all are roses.
Oh! may the sun, benignant, shed
His blandest influence o'er thy bed;
And foster there an infant tree,
To bloom like her, and tower like thee!

[1] This ode is introduced in the Romance of Theodorus Prodromus, and is that kind of epithalamium which was sung like a scolium at the nuptial banquet.

ODE LXVII.

Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn
The wealth of Amalthea's horn;
Nor should I ask to call the throne
Of the Tartessian prince my own;[1]
To totter through his train of years,
The victim of declining fears.
One little hour of joy to me
Is worth a dull eternity!

[1] He here alludes to Arganthonius, who lived, according to Lucian, an hundred and fifty years; and reigned, according to Herodotus, eighty.

ODE LXVIII.

Now Neptune's month our sky deforms,
The angry night-cloud teems with storms;
And savage winds, infuriate driven,
Fly howling in the face of heaven!
Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom
With roseate rays of wine illume:
And while our wreaths of parsley spread
Their fadeless foliage round our head,
Let's hymn the almighty power of wine,
And shed libations on his shrine!

ODE LXIX.

They wove the lotus band to deck
And fan with pensile wreath each neck;
And every guest, to shade his head,
Three little fragrant chaplets spread;[1]
And one was of the Egyptian leaf,
The rest were roses, fair and brief:
While from a golden vase profound,
To all on flowery beds around,
A Hebe, of celestial shape,
Poured the rich droppings of the grape!

[1] Longepierre, to give an idea of the luxurious estimation in which garlands were held by the ancients, relates an anecdote of a courtezan, who, in order to gratify three lovers, without leaving cause for Jealousy with any of them, gave a kiss to one, let the other drink after her, and put a garland on the brow of the third; so that each was satisfied with his favor, and flattered himself with the preference.

ODE LXX.

A broken cake, with honey sweet,
Is all my spare and simple treat:
And while a generous bowl I crown
To float my little banquet down,
I take the soft, the amorous lyre,
And sing of love's delicious fire:
In mirthful measures warm and free,
I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee!

ODE LXXI.

With twenty chords my lyre is hung,
  And while I wake them all for thee,
Thou, O maiden, wild and young,
  Disportest in airy levity.

The nursling fawn, that in some shade
  Its antlered mother leaves behind,
Is not more wantonly afraid,
  More timid of the rustling wind!

ODE LXXII.

Fare thee well, perfidious maid,
My soul, too long on earth delayed,
Delayed, perfidious girl, by thee,
Is on the wing for liberty.
I fly to seek a kindlier sphere,
Since thou hast ceased to love me here!

ODE LXXIII.

Awhile I bloomed, a happy flower,
Till love approached one fatal hour,
And made my tender branches feel
The wounds of his avenging steel.
Then lost I fell, like some poor willow
That falls across the wintry billow!

ODE LXXIV.

Monarch Love, resistless boy,
With whom the rosy Queen of Joy,
And nymphs, whose eyes have Heaven's hue,
Disporting tread the mountain-dew;
Propitious, oh! receive my sighs,
Which, glowing with entreaty, rise
That thou wilt whisper to the breast
Of her I love thy soft behest:
And counsel her to learn from thee.
That lesson thou hast taught to me.
Ah! if my heart no flattery tell,
Thou'lt own I've learned that lesson well!

ODE LXXV.

Spirit of Love, whose locks unrolled,
Stream on the breeze like floating gold;
Come, within a fragrant cloud
Blushing with light, thy votary shroud;
And, on those wings that sparkling play,
Waft, oh, waft me hence away!
Love! my soul is full of thee,
Alive to all thy luxury.
But she, the nymph for whom I glow
The lovely Lesbian mocks my woe;
Smiles at the chill and hoary hues
That time upon my forehead strews.
Alas! I fear she keeps her charms,
In store for younger, happier arms!

ODE LXXVI.

Hither, gentle Muse of mine,
  Come and teach thy votary old
Many a golden hymn divine,
  For the nymph with vest of gold.

Pretty nymph, of tender age,
  Fair thy silky looks unfold;
Listen to a hoary sage,
  Sweetest maid with vest of gold!

ODE LXXVII.

Would that I were a tuneful lyre,
  Of burnished ivory fair,
Which, in the Dionysian choir,
  Some blooming boy should bear!

Would that I were a golden vase.
  That some bright nymph might hold
My spotless frame, with blushing grace,
  Herself as pure as gold!

ODE LXXVIII.

When Cupid sees how thickly now,
The snows of Time fall o'er my brow,
Upon his wing of golden light.
He passes with an eaglet's flight,
And flitting onward seems to say,
"Fare thee well, thou'st had thy day!"

Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray,
That lights our life's meandering way,
That God, within this bosom stealing,
Hath wakened a strange, mingled feeling.
Which pleases, though so sadly teasing,
And teases, though so sweetly pleasing!

* * * * *

Let me resign this wretched breath
  Since now remains to me
No other balm than kindly death,
  To soothe my misery!

* * * * *

I know thou lovest a brimming measure,
  And art a kindly, cordial host;
But let me fill and drink at pleasure—
  Thus I enjoy the goblet most.

I fear that love disturbs my rest,
  Yet feel not love's impassioned care;
I think there's madness in my breast
  Yet cannot find that madness there!

* * * * *

From dread Leucadia's frowning steep,
I'll plunge into the whitening deep:
And there lie cold, to death resigned,
Since Love intoxicates my mind!

* * * * *

Mix me, child, a cup divine,
Crystal water, ruby wine;
Weave the frontlet, richly flushing
O'er my wintry temples blushing.
Mix the brimmer—Love and I
Shall no more the contest try.
Here—upon this holy bowl,
I surrender all my soul!

SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.

HERE AT THY TOMB.

BY MELEAGER.

Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed,
  Tears, which though vainly now they roll,
Are all love hath to give the dead,
  And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;—

Wept in remembrance of that light.
  Which naught on earth, without thee, gives,
Hope of my heart! now quenched in night,
  But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.

Where is she? where the blooming bough
  That once my life's sole lustre made?
Torn off by death, 'tis withering now,
  And all its flowers in dust are laid.

Oh earth! that to thy matron breast
  Hast taken all those angel charms,
Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,—
  Gently, as in a mother's arms.

SALE OF CUPID.

BY MELEAGER.

Who'll buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he,
Fast asleep, sly rogue on his mother's knee;
So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep,
So I'll part with him now, while he's sound asleep.
See his arch little nose, how sharp 'tis curled,
His wings, too, even in sleep unfurled;
And those fingers, which still ever ready are found
For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound.

He'll try with his tears your heart to beguile,
But never you mind—he's laughing all the while;
For little he cares, so he has his own whim,
And weeping or laughing are all one to him.
His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash,
His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash;
And so savage is he, that his own dear mother
Is scarce more safe in his hands than another.

In short, to sum up this darling's praise,
He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways;
And if any one wants such an imp to employ,
He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy.
But see, the boy wakes—his bright tears flow—
His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? oh no,
Sweet child no, no—though so naughty you be,
You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.

TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE.

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

To weave a garland for the rose.
  And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be,
Were far less vain than to suppose
  That silks and gems add grace to thee.
Where is the pearl whose orient lustre
  Would not, beside thee, look less bright?
What gold could match the glossy cluster
  Of those young ringlets full of light?

Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams,
  The bright blue gem of India's mine,
And see how soon, though bright its beams,
  'Twill pale before one glance of thine:
Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us
  With some divine, mellifluous air,
Who would not say that Beauty's cestus
  Had let loose all its witcheries there?

Here, to this conquering host of charms
  I now give up my spell-bound heart.
Nor blush to yield even Reason's arms,
  When thou her bright-eyed conqueror art.
Thus to the wind all fears are given;
  Henceforth those eyes alone I see.
Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven,
  Sits beckoning me to bliss and thee!

WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

Why does she so long delay?
  Night is waning fast away;
Thrice have I my lamp renewed,
  Watching here in solitude,
Where can she so long delay?
  Where, so long delay?

Vainly now have two lamps shone;
  See the third is nearly gone:
Oh that Love would, like the ray
  Of that weary lamp, decay!
But no, alas, it burns still on,
  Still, still, burns on.

Gods, how oft the traitress dear
  Swore, by Venus, she'd be here!
But to one so false as she
  What is man or deity?
Neither doth this proud one fear,—
  No, neither doth she fear.

TWIN'ST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATH THY BROW?

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow?
  Such glory then thy beauty sheds,
I almost think, while awed I bow
  'Tis Rhea's self before me treads.
Be what thou wilt,—this heart
Adores whate'er thou art!

Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave,
  Like sunny waves to wander free?
Then, such a chain of charms they weave,
  As draws my inmost soul from me.
Do what thou wilt,—I must
Be charm'd by all thou dost!

Even when, enwrapt in silvery veils,
  Those sunny locks elude the sight,—
Oh, not even then their glory fails
  To haunt me with its unseen light.
Change as thy beauty may,
It charms in every way.

For, thee the Graces still attend,
  Presiding o'er each new attire,
And lending every dart they send
  Some new, peculiar touch of fire,
Be what thou wilt,—this heart
  Adores what'er thou art!

WHEN THE SAD WORD.

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

When the sad word, "Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling,
  And with it, Hope passes away,
Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling
  That fatal farewell, bids me stay,
For oh! 'tis a penance so weary
  One hour from thy presence to be,
That death to this soul were less dreary,
  Less dark than long absence from thee.

Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking.
  Brings life to the heart it shines o'er,
And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking,
  Made light what was darkness before.
But mute is the Day's sunny glory,
While thine hath a voice, on whose breath,
  More sweet than the Syren's sweet story,
My hopes hang, through life and through death!

MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.

BY PHILODEMUS.

My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown,
But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down,
  And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;
In short, she has woven such nets round my heart,
That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,—
  Unless I can find one that's dearer.

Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear,
And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear,
  That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her;
Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net,
And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget—
  Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.

But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone,
'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone
  From the depths of the grave could revive one:
In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom,
I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb—
 Unless I could meet with a live

STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING.

BY MELEAGER.

Still, like dew in silence falling,
  Drops for thee the nightly tear
Still that voice the past recalling,
  Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
    Still, still!

Day and night the spell hangs o'er me,
  Here forever fixt thou art:
As thy form first shone before me,
  So 'tis graven on this heart,
    Deep, deep!

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
  Dooms me to this lasting pain.
Thou who earnest with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again?
  Why? why?

UP, SAILOR BOY, 'TIS DAY.

Up, sailor boy, 'tis day!
  The west wind blowing,
  The spring tide flowing,
Summon thee hence away.
Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing?
Chirp, chirp,—in every note he seemed to say
'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring.
Up boy, away,—
Who'd stay on land to-day?
  The very flowers
  Would from their bowers
Delight to wing away!

Leave languid youths to pine
  On silken pillows;
  But be the billows
Of the great deep thine.
Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, "Let us fly;"
While soft the sail, replying to the breeze,
Says, with a yielding sigh,
"Yes, where you; please."
Up, boy, the wind, the ray,
  The blue sky o'er thee,
  The deep before thee,
All cry aloud, "Away!"

IN MYRTLE WREATHS.

BY ALCAEUS.

In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover,
  Like them of old whose one immortal blow
Struck off the galling fetters that hung over
  Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.
Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying;
  Still midst the brave and free,
In isles, o'er ocean lying,
  Thy home shall ever be.

In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning,
  Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade
Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;'
  And in the dust a despot victim laid.
Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story
  Your wedded names shall be;
A tyrant's death your glory,
  Your meed, a nation free!

JUVENILE POEMS.

1801.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of our friend LITTLE'S Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose; but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the consequence is you have them in their original form:

non possunt nostros multae, Faustine, liturae emendare jocos; una litura potest.

I am convinced, however, that, though not quite a casuiste relâché, you have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know that the pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive Juvenilia which he published under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of Bembo's poems prevent him from making a very good cardinal.

Believe me, my dear friend.

With the truest esteem,

Yours,

T. M.

April 19, 1802

JUVENILE POEMS

FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.

Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus.—JUV.

Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line,
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine,
How heavy sits that weight, of alien show,
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow;
Those borrowed splendors whose contrasting light
Throws back the native shades in deeper night.

Ask the proud train who glory's train pursue,
Where are the arts by which that glory grew?
The genuine virtues with that eagle-gaze
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze!
Where is the heart by chymic truth refined,
The exploring soul whose eye had read mankind?
Where are the links that twined, with heavenly art,
His country's interest round the patriot's heart?

* * * * *

Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in armis relinquitur spes.—LIVY.

* * * * *

Is there no call, no consecrating cause
Approved by Heav'n, ordained by nature's laws,
Where justice flies the herald of our way,
And truth's pure beams upon the banners play?

Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath
To slumbering babes or innocence in death;
And urgent as the tongue of Heaven within,
When the mind's balance trembles upon sin.

Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet
An echo in the soul's most deep retreat;
Along the heart's responding chords should run,
Nor let a tone there vibrate—but the one!

VARIETY.

Ask what prevailing, pleasing power
  Allures the sportive, wandering bee
To roam untired, from flower to flower,
  He'll tell you, 'tis variety.

Look Nature round; her features trace,
  Her seasons, all her changes see;
And own, upon Creation's face,
  The greatest charm's variety.

For me, ye gracious powers above!
  Still let me roam, unfixt and free;
In all things,—but the nymph I love
  I'll change, and taste variety.

But, Patty, not a world of charms
  Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;—
No, let me ever seek those arms.
  There still I'll find variety.

TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH,

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND

Is it not sweet, beloved youth,
  To rove through Erudition's bowers,
And cull the golden fruits of truth,
  And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers?

And is it not more sweet than this,
  To feel thy parents' hearts approving,
And pay them back in sums of bliss
  The dear, the endless debt of loving?

It must be so to thee, my youth;
  With this idea toil is lighter;
This sweetens all the fruits of truth,
  And makes the flowers of fancy brighter.

The little gift we send thee, boy,
  May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder,
If indolence or siren joy
  Should ever tempt that soul to wander.

'Twill tell thee that the wingèd day
  Can, ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavor;
That life and time shall fade away,
  While heaven and virtue bloom forever!

SONG.

If I swear by that eye, you'll allow,
  Its look is so shifting and new,
That the oath I might take on it now
  The very next glance would undo.

Those babies that nestle so sly
  Such thousands of arrows have got,
That an oath, on the glance of an eye
  Such as yours, may be off in a shot.

Should I swear by the dew on your lip,
  Though each moment the treasure renews,
If my constancy wishes to trip,
  I may kiss off the oath when I choose.

Or a sigh may disperse from that flower;
  Both the dew and the oath that are there;
And I'd make a new vow every hour,
  To lose them so sweetly in air.

But clear up the heaven of your brow,
  Nor fancy my faith is a feather;
On my heart I will pledge you my vow,
  And they both must be broken together!

TO …….

Remember him thou leavest behind,
  Whose heart is warmly bound to thee,
Close as the tenderest links can bind
  A heart as warm as heart can be.

Oh! I had long in freedom roved,
  Though many seemed my soul to snare;
'Twas passion when I thought I loved,
  'Twas fancy when I thought them fair.

Even she, my muse's early theme,
  Beguiled me only while she warmed;
Twas young desire that fed the dream,
  And reason broke what passion formed.

But thou-ah! better had it been
  If I had still in freedom roved,
If I had ne'er thy beauties seen,
  For then I never should have loved.

Then all the pain which lovers feel
  Had never to this heart been known;
But then, the joys that lovers steal,
  Should they have ever been my own?

Oh! trust me, when I swear thee this,
  Dearest! the pain of loving thee,
The very pain is sweeter bliss
  Than passion's wildest ecstasy.

That little cage I would not part,
  In which my soul is prisoned now,
For the most light and winged heart
  That wantons on the passing vow.

Still, my beloved! still keep in mind,
  However far removed from me,
That there is one thou leavest behind,
  Whose heart respires for only thee!

And though ungenial ties have bound
  Thy fate unto another's care,
That arm, which clasps thy bosom round,
  Cannot confine the heart that's there.

No, no! that heart is only mine
  By ties all other ties above,
For I have wed it at a shrine
  Where we have had no priest but Love.

SONG.

When Time who steals our years away
  Shall steal our pleasures too,
The memory of the past will stay
  And half our joys renew,
Then, Julia, when thy beauty's flower
  Shall feel the wintry air,
Remembrance will recall the hour
  When thou alone wert fair.
Then talk no more of future gloom;
  Our joys shall always last;
For Hope shall brighten days to come,
  And Memory gild the past.

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,
  I drink to Love and thee:
Thou never canst decay in soul,
  Thou'lt still be young for me.
And as thy; lips the tear-drop chase,
  Which on my cheek they find,
So hope shall steal away the trace
  That sorrow leaves behind.
Then fill the bowl—away with gloom!
  Our joys shall always last;
For Hope shall brighten days to come,
  And Memory gild the past.

But mark, at thought of future years
  When love shall lose its soul,
My Chloe drops her timid tears,
  They mingle with my bowl.
How like this bowl of wine, my fair,
  Our loving life shall fleet;
Though tears may sometimes mingle there,
  The draught will still be sweet.
Then fill the cup—away with gloom!
  Our joys shall always last;
For Hope will brighten days to come,
  And Memory gild the past.

SONG.

Have you not seen the timid tear,
  Steal trembling from mine eye?
Have you not marked the flush of fear,
  Or caught the murmured sigh?
And can you think my love is chill,
  Nor fixt on you alone?
And can you rend, by doubting still,
  A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move,
  Devoutly, warmly true;
My life has been a task of love,
  One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith be o'er,
  If still my truth you'll try;
Alas, I know but one proof more—
  I'll bless your name, and die!

REUBEN AND ROSE.

A TALE OF ROMANCE.

The darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls
  Had long been remembered with awe and dismay;
For years not a sunbeam had played in its halls,
  And it seemed as shut out from the regions of day.

Though the valleys were brightened by many a beam,
  Yet none could the woods of that castle illume;
And the lightning which flashed on the neighboring stream
  Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom!

"Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse!"
  Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave;—
"It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse,
  "Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!"

And who was the bright star of chivalry then?
  Who could be but Reuben, the flower of the age?
For Reuben was first in the combat of men,
  Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page.

For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat,
  For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn,
When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet,
  It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn.

Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever?
  Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave,
That darkness should cover that castle forever,
  Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave!

To the wizard she flew, saying, "Tell me, oh, tell?
  Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes?"
"Yes, yes—when a spirit shall toll the great bell
  Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!"

Twice, thrice he repeated "Your Reuben shall rise!"
  And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain;
And wiped, while she listened, the tears from her eyes.
  And hoped she might yet see her hero again.

That hero could smite at the terrors of death,
  When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose;
To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath,
  In the depth of the billows soon found his repose.—

How strangely the order of destiny falls!
  Not long in the waters the warrior lay,
When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls,
  And the castle of Willumberg basked in the ray!

All, all but the soul of the maid was in light,
  There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank:
Two days did she wander, and all the long night,
  In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank.

Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell,
  And heard but the breathings of night in the air;
Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell,
  And saw but the foam of the white billow there.

And often as midnight its veil would undraw,
  As she looked at the light of the moon in the stream,
She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw,
  As the curl of the surge glittered high in the beam.

And now the third night was begemming the sky;
  Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclined,
There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye,
  When—hark!—'twas the bell that came deep in the wind!

She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade,
  A form o'er the waters in majesty glide;
She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was decayed,
And his helmet of silver was washed by the tide.

Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold?—
  Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam;
'Twas Reuben, but, ah! he was deathly and cold,
  And fleeted away like the spell of a dream!

Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought
  From the bank to embrace him, but vain her endeavor!
Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught,
  And sunk to repose on its bosom forever!

DID NOT.

'Twas a new feeling—something more
Than we had dared to own before.
  Which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,
  To speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impassioned touch—
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
  And yet she chid not;
But whispered o'er my burning brow,
"Oh! do you doubt I love you now?"
  Sweet soul! I did not.

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I prest it closer, closer still,
  Though gently bid not;
Till—oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly erred,
  And yet, who did not.

TO …….

That wrinkle, when first I espied it,
  At once put my heart out of pain;
Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,
  Disturbed my ideas again.

Thou art just in the twilight at present,
  When woman's declension begins;
When, fading from all that is pleasant,
  She bids a good night to her sins.

Yet thou still art so lovely to me,
  I would sooner, my exquisite mother!
Repose in the sunset of thee,
  Than bask in the noon of another.

TO MRS. …….

ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER.

Is not thy mind a gentle mind?
Is not that heart a heart refined?
Hast thou not every gentle grace,
We love in woman's mind and face?
And, oh! art thou a shrine for Sin
To hold her hateful worship in?

No, no, be happy—dry that tear—
Though some thy heart hath harbored near,
May now repay its love with blame;
Though man, who ought to shield thy fame,
Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee;
Though all the world look cold upon thee,
Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still
Unharmed by that surrounding chill;
Like the famed drop, in crystal found,[1]
Floating, while all was frozen round,—
Unchilled unchanging shalt thou be,
Safe in thy own sweet purity.

[1] This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure water enclosed within a piece of crystal. Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind at Milan; and adds; "It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vendöme in France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen".

ANACREONTIC.

    —in lachrymas verterat omne merum.
    TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5.

Press the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple shower:
And, while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think in woe the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.
Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe.

TO …….

When I loved you, I can't but allow
  I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now
  Hath even more luxury in it.

Thus, whether we're on or we're off,
  Some witchery seems to await you;
To love you was pleasant enough,
  And, oh! 'tis delicious hate you!

TO JULIA.

IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.

Why, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,
Like vapor on a stagnant pool.
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please the elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought—
If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
"He was, indeed, a tender soul—
 No critic law, no chill control,
 Should ever freeze, by timid art,
 The flowings of so fond a heart!"
Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!
That, hovering like a snow-winged dove,
Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hailed me Passion's warmest child,—
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;
Oh! let my song, my memory find,
A shrine within the tender mind!
And I will smile when critics chide,
And I will scorn the fume of pride
Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,
Like vapor round some stagnant pool!

TO JULIA.

Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,
  A dream, I find, illusory as sweet:
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,
  Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!

I've heard you oft eternal truth declare;
  Your heart was only mine, I once believed.
Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air?
  And must I say, my hopes were all deceived?

Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined
  That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal;
Julia!—'tis pity, pity makes you kind;
  You know I love, and you would seem to feel.

But shall I still go seek within those arms
  A joy in which affection takes no part?
No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms,
  When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

THE SHRINE.

TO …….

My fates had destined me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lured my pious steps to stay;
For if the saint was young and fair,
I turned, and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require:
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion;
And, every humbler altar past,
I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!

TO A LADY,

WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS,

ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY.

When, casting many a look behind,
  I leave the friends I cherish here—
Perchance some other friends to find,
  But surely finding none so dear—

Haply the little simple page,
  Which votive thus I've traced for thee,
May now and then a look engage,
  And steal one moment's thought for me.

But, oh! in pity let not those
  Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,
Let not the eye that seldom flows
  With feeling's tear, my song behold.

For, trust me, they who never melt
  With pity, never melt with love;
And such will frown at all I've felt,
  And all my loving lays reprove.

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,
  Which rather loves to praise than blame,
Should in my page an interest find.
  And linger kindly on my name;

Tell him—or, oh! if, gentler still,
  By female lips my name be blest:
For where do all affections thrill
  So sweetly as in woman's breast?—

Tell her, that he whose loving themes
  Her eye indulgent wanders o'er,
Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,
  And bolder flights of fancy soar;

That Glory oft would claim the lay,
  And Friendship oft his numbers move;
But whisper then, that, "sooth to say,
  His sweetest song was given to Love!"

TO JULIA.

Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part,
  Our souls it cannot, shall not sever;
The heart will seek its kindred heart,
  And cling to it as close as ever.

But must we, must we part indeed?
  Is all our dream of rapture over?
And does not Julia's bosom bleed
  To leave so dear, so fond a lover?

Does she, too, mourn?—Perhaps she may;
  Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting;
But why is Julia's eye so gay,
  If Julia's heart like mine is beating?

I oft have loved that sunny glow
  Of gladness in her blue eye beaming—
But can the bosom bleed with woe
  While joy is in the glances beaming?

No, no!—Yet, love, I will not chide;
  Although your heart were fond of roving,
Nor that, nor all the world beside
  Could keep your faithful boy from loving.

You'll soon be distant from his eye,
  And, with you, all that's worth possessing.
Oh! then it will be sweet to die,
  When life has lost its only blessing!

TO …….

Sweet lady, look not thus again:
  Those bright, deluding smiles recall
A maid remember'd now with pain,
  Who was my love, my life, my all!

Oh! while this heart bewildered took
  Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,
Thus would she smile and lisp and look,
  And I would hear and gaze and sigh!

Yes, I did love her—wildly love—
  She was her sex's best deceiver!
And oft she swore she'd never rove—
  And I was destined to believe her!

Then, lady, do not wear the smile
  Of one whose smile could thus betray;
Alas! I think the lovely wile
  Again could steal my heart away.

For, when those spells that charmed my mind
  On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resigned
  Will err again and fly to thee!

NATURE'S LABELS.

A FRAGMENT.

In vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth or short proboscis;
Boobies have looked as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagirite:
And many a sage and learned skull
Has peeped through windows dark and dull.
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man,
Nor (howsoe'er "learned Thebans" doubt)
The inward woman, from without,
Methinks 'twere well if nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pithy, short descriptions write
On tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles;
And where all men might read—but stay—
As dialectic sages say,
The argument most apt and ample
For common use is the example.
For instance, then, if Nature's care
Had not portrayed, in lines so fair,
The inward soul of Lucy Lindon.
This is the label she'd have pinned on.

LABEL FIRST.

Within this form there lies enshrined
The purest, brightest gem of mind.
Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw
Upon its charms the shade of woe,
The lustre of the gem, when veiled,
Shall be but mellowed, not concealed.

* * * * *

Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able,
That Nature wrote a second label,
They're her own words—at least suppose so—
And boldly pin it on Pomposo.

LABEL SECOND.

When I composed the fustian brain
Of this redoubted Captain Vain.
I had at hand but few ingredients,
And so was forced to use expedients.
I put therein some small discerning,
A grain of sense, a grain of learning;
And when I saw the void behind,
I filled it up with—froth and wind!

* * * * *

TO JULIA

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

When Time was entwining the garland of years,
  Which to crown my beloved was given,
Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,
  Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven.

And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,
  May its verdure forever be new;
Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,
  And Sympathy nurse it with dew.

A REFLECTION AT SEA.

See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,
  Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for awhile,—
  Then murmuring subsides to rest.

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
  Rises on time's eventful sea:
And, having swelled a moment there,
  Thus melts into eternity!

CLORIS AND FANNY.

Cloris! if I were Persia's king,
  I'd make my graceful queen of thee;
While FANNY, wild and artless thing,
  Should but thy humble handmaid be.

There is but one objection in it—
  That, verily, I'm much afraid
I should, in some unlucky minute,
  Forsake the mistress for the maid.

THE SHIELD.

Say, did you not hear a voice of death!
  And did you not mark the paly form
Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath,
  And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?

Was it the wailing bird of the gloom,
  That shrieks on the house of woe all night?
Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,
  To howl and to feed till the glance of light?

'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood,
  Nor shivering fiend that hung on the blast;
'Twas the shade of Helderic—man of blood—
  It screams for the guilt of days that are past.

See, how the red, red lightning strays,
  And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!
Now on the leafless yew it plays,
  Where hangs the shield of this son of death.

That shield is blushing with murderous stains;
  Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray;
It is blown by storms and washed by rains,
  But neither can take the blood away!

Oft by that yew, on the blasted field,
  Demons dance to the red moon's light;
While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield
  Sings to the raving spirit of night!

TO JULIA WEEPING.

Oh! if your tears are given to care,
   If real woe disturbs your peace,
Come to my bosom, weeping fair!
  And I will bid your weeping cease.

But if with Fancy's visioned fears,
  With dreams of woe your bosom thrill;
You look so lovely in your tears,
  That I must bid you drop them still.

DREAMS.

TO … ….

In slumber, I prithee how is it
  That souls are oft taking the air,
And paying each other a visit,
  While bodies are heaven knows where?

Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it,
  Your soul took a fancy to roam,
For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet,
  Come ask, whether mine was at home.

And mine let her in with delight,
  And they talked and they laughed the time through;
For, when souls come together at night,
  There is no saying what they mayn't do!

And your little Soul, heaven bless her!
  Had much to complain and to say,
Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her
  By keeping her prisoned all day.

"If I happen," said she, "but to steal
  "For a peep now and then to her eye,
"Or, to quiet the fever I feel,
  "Just venture abroad on a sigh;

"In an instant she frightens me in
  "With some phantom of prudence or terror,
"For fear I should stray into sin,
  "Or, what is still worse, into error!

"So, instead of displaying my graces,
  "By daylight, in language and mien,
"I am shut up in corners and places,
  "Where truly I blush to be seen!"

Upon hearing this piteous confession,
  My Soul, looking tenderly at her,
Declared, as for grace and discretion,
  He did not know much of the matter;

"But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit!" he said,
  "Be at home, after midnight, and then
"I will come when your lady's in bed,
  "And we'll talk o'er the subject again."

So she whispered a word in his ear,
  I suppose to her door to direct him,
And, just after midnight, my dear,
  Your polite little Soul may expect him.

TO ROSA.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

The wisest soul, by anguish torn,
  Will soon unlearn the lore it knew;
And when the shrining casket's worn,
  The gem within will tarnish too.

But love's an essence of the soul,
  Which sinks hot with this chain of clay;
Which throbs beyond the chill control
  Of withering pain or pale decay.

And surely, when the touch of Death
  Dissolves the spirit's earthly ties,
Love still attends the immortal breath,
  And makes it purer for the skies!

Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere,
  My soul shall leave this orb of men,
That love which formed its treasure here,
  Shall be its best of treasures then!

And as, in fabled dreams of old,
  Some air-born genius, child of time,
Presided o'er each star that rolled,
  And tracked it through its path sublime;

So thou, fair planet, not unled,
  Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray;
Thy lover's shade, to thee still wed,
  Shall linger round thy earthly way.

Let other spirits range the sky,
  And play around each starry gem;
I'll bask beneath that lucid eye,
  Nor envy worlds of suns to them.

And when that heart shall cease to beat,
  And when that breath at length is free,
Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet,
  And mingle to eternity!

SONG.

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove,
  Is fair—but oh, how fair,
If Pity's hand had stolen from Love
One leaf, to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied,
  Did gems for dewdrops fall,
One faded leaf where Love had sighed
  Were sweetly worth them all.

The wreath you wove,—the wreath you wove
  Our emblem well may be;
Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Love
  Must keep its tears for me.

THE SALE OF LOVES.

I dreamt that, in the Paphian groves,
  My nets by moonlight laying,
I caught a flight of wanton Loves,
  Among the rose-beds playing.
Some just had left their silvery shell,
  While some were full in feather;
So pretty a lot of Loves to sell,
  Were never yet strung together.
    Come buy my Loves,
    Come buy my Loves,
Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!—
  They're new and bright,
  The cost is light,
For the coin of this isle is kisses.

First Cloris came, with looks sedate.
  The coin on her lips was ready;
"I buy," quoth she, "my Love by weight,
  "Full grown, if you please, and steady."
"Let mine be light," said Fanny, "pray—
  "Such lasting toys undo one;
"A light little Love that will last to-day,—
  "To-morrow I'll sport a new one."
     Come buy my Loves,
     Come buy my Loves,
Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!—
  There's some will keep,
  Some light and cheap
At from ten to twenty kisses.

The learned Prue took a pert young thing,
  To divert her virgin Muse with,
And pluck sometimes a quill from his wing.
  To indite her billet-doux with,
Poor Cloe would give for a well-fledged pair
  Her only eye, if you'd ask it;
And Tabitha begged, old toothless fair.
  For the youngest Love in the basket.
    Come buy my Loves, etc.

But one was left, when Susan came,
  One worth them all together;
At sight of her dear looks of shame,
  He smiled and pruned his feather.
She wished the boy—'twas more than whim—
  Her looks, her sighs betrayed it;
But kisses were not enough for him,
  I asked a heart and she paid it!
    Good-by, my Loves,
    Good-by, my Loves,
'Twould make you smile to've seen us
  First, trade for this
  Sweet child of bliss,
And then nurse the boy between us.

TO …. ….

The world has just begun to steal
  Each hope that led me lightly on;
I felt not, as I used to feel,
  And life grew dark and love was gone.

No eye to mingle sorrow's tear,
  No lip to mingle pleasure's breath,
No circling arms to draw me near—
  'Twas gloomy, and I wished for death.

But when I saw that gentle eye,
  Oh! something seemed to tell me then,
That I was yet too young to die,
  And hope and bliss might bloom again.

With every gentle smile that crost
  Your kindling cheek, you lighted home
Some feeling which my heart had lost
  And peace which far had learned to roam.

'Twas then indeed so sweet to live,
   Hope looked so new and Love so kind.
That, though I mourn, I yet forgive
   The ruin they have left behind.

I could have loved you—oh, so well!—
  The dream, that wishing boyhood knows,
Is but a bright, beguiling spell,
  That only lives while passion glows.

But, when this early flush declines,
  When the heart's sunny morning fleets,
You know not then how close it twines
  Round the first kindred soul it meets.

Yes, yes, I could have loved, as one
  Who, while his youth's enchantments fall,
Finds something dear to rest upon,
  Which pays him for the loss of all.

TO …. ….

Never mind how the pedagogue proses,
  You want not antiquity's stamp;
A lip, that such fragrance discloses,
  Oh! never should smell of the lamp.

Old Cloe, whose withering kiss
  Hath long set the Loves at defiance,
Now, done with the science of bliss,
  May take to the blisses of science.

But for you to be buried in books—
  Ah, Fanny, they're pitiful sages,
Who could not in one of your looks
  Read more than in millions of pages.

Astronomy finds in those eyes
  Better light than she studies above;
And Music would borrow your sighs
  As the melody fittest for Love.

Your Arithmetic only can trip
  If to count your own charms you endeavor;
And Eloquence glows on your lip
  When you swear that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance
  Of arts is assembled in you;—
A course of more exquisite science
  Man never need wish to pursue.

And, oh!—if a Fellow like me
  May confer a diploma of hearts,
With my lip thus I seal your degree,
  My divine little Mistress of Arts!

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep
  Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,
Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
  Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,
  And mingles in our misery;
Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal—
  Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,
  But sullen clouds the day deform;
Like thee was that young, orient beam,
  Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,
  So linked thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
  We thought thou wert not formed to die.

INCONSTANCY.

And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,
  When surely there's nothing in nature more common?
She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me—
  And could I expect any more from a woman?

Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;
  And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe,
When he held that you were but materials of pleasure,
  And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.

By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,
  He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid;
But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute—
  If he live but a day, he'll be surely betrayed.

THE NATAL GENIUS.

A DREAM

TO …. ….

THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDAY.

In witching slumbers of the night,
I dreamt I was the airy sprite
  That on thy natal moment smiled;
And thought I wafted on my wing
Those flowers which in Elysium spring,
  To crown my lovely mortal child.

With olive-branch I bound thy head,
Heart's ease along thy path I shed,
  Which was to bloom through all thy years;
Nor yet did I forget to bind
Love's roses, with his myrtle twined,
  And dewed by sympathetic tears.

Such was the wild but precious boon
Which Fancy, at her magic noon,
  Bade me to Nona's image pay;
And were it thus my fate to be
Thy little guardian deity,
  How blest around thy steps I'd play!

Thy life should glide in peace along,
Calm as some lonely shepherd's song
  That's heard at distance in the grove;
No cloud should ever dim thy sky,
No thorns along thy pathway lie,
  But all be beauty, peace and love.

Indulgent Time should never bring
To thee one blight upon his wing,
  So gently o'er thy brow he'd fly;
And death itself should but be felt
Like that of daybeams, when they melt,
  Bright to the last, in evening's sky!

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA,

ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER.

Though sorrow long has worn my heart;
  Though every day I've, counted o'er
Hath brought a new and, quickening smart
  To wounds that rankled fresh before;

Though in my earliest life bereft
  Of tender links by nature tied;
Though hope deceived, and pleasure left;
  Though friends betrayed and foes belied;

I still had hopes—for hope will stay
  After the sunset of delight;
So like the star which ushers day,
  We scarce can think it heralds night!—

I hoped that, after all its strife,
  My weary heart at length should rest.
And, feinting from the waves of life,
  Find harbor in a brother's breast.

That brother's breast was warm with truth,
  Was bright with honor's purest ray;
He was the dearest, gentlest youth—
  Ah, why then was he torn away?

He should have stayed, have lingered here
  To soothe his Julia's every woe;
He should have chased each bitter tear,
  And not have caused those tears to flow.

We saw within his soul expand
  The fruits of genius, nurst by taste;
While Science, with a fostering hand,
  Upon his brow her chaplet placed.

We saw, by bright degrees, his mind
  Grow rich in all that makes men dear;
Enlightened, social, and refined,
  In friendship firm, in love sincere.

Such was the youth we loved so well,
  And such the hopes that fate denied;—
We loved, but ah! could scarcely tell
  How deep, how dearly, till he died!

Close as the fondest links could strain,
  Twined with my very heart he grew;
And by that fate which breaks the chain,
  The heart is almost broken too.

TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS……,

IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE

IMPROMPTU.

—Ego Pars—VIRG.

In wedlock a species of lottery lies,
  Where in blanks and in prizes we deal;
But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,
  Should so long have remained in the wheel?

If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree,
  To me such a ticket should roll,
A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me;
  For what could I do with the whole?

A DREAM.

I thought this heart enkindled lay
  On Cupid's burning shrine:
I thought he stole thy heart away,
  And placed it near to mine.

I saw thy heart begin to melt,
  Like ice before the sun;
Till both a glow congenial felt,
  And mingled into one!

TO …….

With all my soul, then, let us part,
  Since both are anxious to be free;
And I will sand you home your heart,
  If you will send mine back to me.

We've had some happy hours together,
  But joy must often change its wing;
And spring would be but gloomy weather,
  If we had nothing else but spring.

'Tis not that I expect to find
  A more devoted, fond and true one,
With rosier cheek or sweeter mind—
  Enough for me that she's a new one.

Thus let us leave the bower of love,
  Where we have loitered long in bliss;
And you may down that pathway rove,
  While I shall take my way through this.

ANACREONTIC.

"She never looked so kind before—
  "Yet why the wanton's smile recall?
"I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er,
  "'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!"

Thus I said and, sighing drained
  The cup which she so late had tasted;
Upon whose rim still fresh remained
  The breath, so oft in falsehood wasted.

I took the harp and would have sung
  As if 'twere not of her I sang;
But still the notes on Lamia hung—
  On whom but Lamia could they hang?

Those eyes of hers, that floating shine,
  Like diamonds in some eastern river;
That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine,
  A world for every kiss I'd give her.

That frame so delicate, yet warmed
  With flushes of love's genial hue;
A mould transparent, as if formed
  To let the spirit's light shine through.

Of these I sung, and notes and words
  Were sweet, as if the very air
From Lamia's lip hung o'er the chords,
  And Lamia's voice still warbled there!

But when, alas, I turned the theme,
  And when of vows and oaths I spoke,
Of truth and hope's seducing dream—
  The chord beneath my finger broke.

False harp! false woman! such, oh, such
  Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing;
Any hand, whate'er its touch,
  Can set their chords or pulses thrilling.

And when that thrill is most awake,
  And when you think Heaven's joys await you,
The nymph will change, the chord will break—
  Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!

TO JULIA.

I saw the peasant's hand unkind
  From yonder oak the ivy sever;
They seemed in very being twined;
  Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!

Not so the widowed ivy shines:
  Torn from its dear and only stay,
In drooping widowhood it pines,
  And scatters all its bloom away.

Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine,
  Till Fate disturbed their tender ties:
Thus gay indifference blooms in thine,
  While mine, deserted, droops and dies!

HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI,

AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER.

Oh, lost, forever lost—no more
  Shall Vesper light our dewy way
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,
  To hymn the fading fires of day;
No more to Tempe's distant vale
  In holy musings shall we roam,
Through summer's glow and winter's gale,
  To bear the mystic chaplets home.[1]

'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal,
  By nature warmed and led by thee,
In every breeze was taught to feel
  The breathings of a Deity.
Guide of my heart! still hovering round.
  Thy looks, thy words are still my own—
I see thee raising from the ground
  Some laurel, by the winds o'er thrown.
And hear thee say, "This humble bough
  Was planted for a doom divine;
And, though it droop in languor now,
  Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine!"
"Thus, in the vale of earthly sense,
 "Though sunk awhile the spirit lies,
"A viewless hand shall cull it thence
 "To bloom immortal in the skies!"

All that the young should feel and know
 By thee was taught so sweetly well,
Thy words fell soft as vernal snow,
 And all was brightness where they fell!
Fond soother of my infant tear,
 Fond sharer of my infant joy,
Is not thy shade still lingering here?
 Am I not still thy soul's employ?
Oh yes—and, as in former days,
 When, meeting on the sacred mount,
Our nymphs awaked their choral lays,
 And danced around Cassotis' fount;
As then, 'twas all thy wish and care,
 That mine should be the simplest mien,
My lyre and voice the sweetest there,
 My foot the lightest o'er the green:
So still, each look and step to mould,
 Thy guardian care is round me spread,
Arranging every snowy fold
 And guiding every mazy tread.
And, when I lead the hymning choir,
 Thy spirit still, unseen and free,
Hovers between my lip and lyre,
 And weds them into harmony.
Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave
 Shall never drop its silvery tear
Upon so pure, so blest a grave,
 To memory so entirely dear!

[1] The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias; that this valley supplied the branches, of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, "The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute."

SYMPATHY.

TO JULIA.

    —sine me sit nulla Venus.
    SULPICIA.

Our hearts, my love, were formed to be
The genuine twins of Sympathy,
  They live with one sensation;
In joy or grief, but most in love,
Like chords in unison they move,
  And thrill with like vibration.

How oft I've beard thee fondly say,
Thy vital pulse shall cease to play
  When mine no more is moving;
Since, now, to feel a joy alone
Were worse to thee than feeling none,
  So twined are we in loving!

THE TEAR.

On beds of snow the moonbeam slept,
  And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept—
  Fond maid! it was her Lindor's tomb!

A warm tear gushed, the wintry air,
  Congealed it as it flowed away:
All night it lay an ice-drop there,
  At morn it glittered in the ray.

An angel, wandering from her sphere,
  Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear
  And hung it on her diadem!

THE SNAKE.

My love and I, the other day,
Within a myrtle arbor lay,
When near us, from a rosy bed,
A little Snake put forth its head.

"See," said the maid with thoughtful eyes—
"Yonder the fatal emblem lies!
"Who could expect such hidden harm
"Beneath the rose's smiling charm?"

Never did grave remark occur
Less à-propos than this from her.

I rose to kill the snake, but she,
Half-smiling, prayed it might not be.

"No," said the maiden—and, alas,
  Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it—
"Long as the snake is in the grass,
  "One may, perhaps, have cause to dread it:
"But, when its wicked eyes appear,
  "And when we know for what they wink so,
"One must be very simple, dear,
  "To let it wound one—don't you think so?"

TO ROSA.

Is the song of Rosa mute?
Once such lays inspired her lute!
Never doth a sweeter song
Steal the breezy lyre along,
When the wind, in odors dying,
Woos it with enamor'd sighing.

  Is my Rosa's lute unstrung?
Once a tale of peace it sung
To her lover's throbbing breast—
Then was he divinely blest!
Ah! but Rosa loves no more,
Therefore Rosa's song is o'er;
And her lute neglected lies;
And her boy forgotten sighs.
Silent lute—forgotten lover—
Rosa's love and song are over!

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

Sic juvat perire.

When wearied wretches sink to sleep,
 How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!
How sweet is death to those who weep,
To those who weep and long to die!

Saw you the soft and grassy bed,
  Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast?
'Tis there I wish to lay my head,
  'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.

Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,—
 None but the dews at twilight given!
Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,—
 None but the whispering winds of heaven!

LOVE AND MARRIAGE.

    Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum.
    SECUNDUS, eleg. vii.

Still the question I must parry,
  Still a wayward truant prove:
Where I love, I must not marry;
  Where I marry, can not love.

Were she fairest of creation,
  With the least presuming mind;
Learned without affectation;
  Not deceitful, yet refined;

Wise enough, but never rigid;
  Gay, but not too lightly free;
Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid:
  Fond, yet satisfied with me:

Were she all this ten times over,
  All that heaven to earth allows.
I should be too much her lover
  Ever to become her spouse.

Love will never bear enslaving;
  Summer garments suit him best;
Bliss itself is not worth having,
  If we're by compulsion blest.

ANACREONTIC.

I filled to thee, to thee I drank,
  I nothing did but drink and fill;
The bowl by turns was bright and blank,
  'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.

At length I bade an artist paint
  Thy image in this ample cup,
That I might see the dimpled saint,
  To whom I quaffed my nectar up.

Behold, how bright that purple lip
  Now blushes through the wave at me;
Every roseate drop I sip
  Is just like kissing wine from thee.

And still I drink the more for this;
  For, ever when the draught I drain,
Thy lip invites another kiss,
  And—in the nectar flows again.

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear,
  And may that eyelid never shine
Beneath a darker, bitterer tear
  Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!

THE SURPRISE.

Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore,
That from this hour I shall not love thee more.—
"What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?"
Because I can not love thee more
  —than now!

TO MISS …….

ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS NIGHTS.

I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,
  And in thy breath his pinion dips,
Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,
  And faints upon thy sighing lips:

I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep
  That used to shade thy looks of light;
And why those eyes their vigil keep
  When other suns are sunk in night?

And I will say—her angel breast
  Has never throbbed with guilty sting;
Her bosom is the sweetest nest
  Where Slumber could repose his wing!

And I will say—her cheeks that flush,
  Like vernal roses in the sun,
Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush,
  Except for what her eyes have done!

Then tell me, why, thou child of air!
  Does slumber from her eyelids rove?
What is her heart's impassioned care?
  Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis love.

THE WONDER.

Come, tell me where the maid is found.
  Whose heart can love without deceit,
And I will range the world around,
  To sigh one moment at her feet.

Oh! tell me where's her sainted home,
  What air receives her blessed sigh,
A pilgrimage of years I'll roam
  To catch one sparkle of her eye!

And if her cheek be smooth and bright,
  While truth within her bosom lies,
I'll gaze upon her morn and night,
  Till my heart leave me through my eyes.

Show me on earth a thing so rare,
  I'll own all miracles are true;
To make one maid sincere and fair,
  Oh, 'tis the utmost Heaven can do!

LYING.

    Che con le lor bugie pajon divini.
    MAURO D'ARCANO.

I do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breathed you many a lie;
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?

  Nay,—look not thus, with brow reproving;
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving.
If half we tell the girls were true,
If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
This world would be in strange confusion.
If ladies' eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy must leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes.
Oh, no—believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your amber locks to golden wire,
Then, only then can Heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We've swearing kist, and kissing sworn.
  And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once I'll tell you truth, my dear.
Whenever you may chance to meet
Some loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you're false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures,
And while he lies, his heart is yours:
But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth.

ANACREONTIC.

Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,
  'Twill chase that pensive tear;
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,
  But, oh! 'tis more sincere.

  Like her delusive beam,
    'Twill steal away thy mind:
  But, truer than love's dream,
    It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;
  These flowers were culled at noon;—
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
  But, ah! not half so soon.
    For though the flower's decayed,
      Its fragrance is not o'er;
    But once when love's betrayed,
      Its sweet life blooms no more.

THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS[1]

TO A LAMP WHICH HAD BEEN GIVEN HIM BY LAIS.

    Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna.
    MARTIAL, lib. xiv. epig. 89.

"Oh! love the Lamp" (my Mistress said),
  "The faithful Lamp that, many a night,
"Beside thy Lais' lonely bed?
  "Has kept its little watch of light.

"Full often has it seen her weep,
  "And fix her eye upon its flame.
"Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep,
  "Repeating her beloved's name.

"Then love the Lamp—'twill often lead
  "Thy step through learning's sacred way;
"And when those studious eyes shall read,
 "At midnight, by its lonely ray,
  "Of things sublime, of nature's birth,
  "Of all that's bright in heaven or earth,
 Oh, think that she, by whom 'twas given,
"Adores thee more than earth or heaven!"

Yes—dearest Lamp, by every charm
  On which thy midnight beam has hung;
The head reclined, the graceful arm
  Across the brow of ivory flung;

The heaving bosom, partly hid,
  The severed lips unconscious sighs,
The fringe that from the half-shut lid
  Adown the cheek of roses lies;

By these, by all that bloom untold,
  And long as all shall charm my heart,
I'll love my little Lamp of gold—
  My Lamp and I shall never part.

And often, as she smiling said,
  In fancy's hour thy gentle rays
Shall guide my visionary tread
  Through poesy's enchanting maze.
Thy flame shall light the page refined,
  Where still we catch the Chian's breath,
  Where still the bard though cold in death,
Has left his soul unquenched behind.
Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine,
  Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades,
To whom the nightly warbling Nine
  A wand of inspiration gave,
Plucked from the greenest tree, that shades
The crystal of Castalia's wave.

Then, turning to a purer lore,
We'll cull the sage's deep-hid store,
From Science steal her golden clue,
And every mystic path pursue,
Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes,
Through labyrinths of wonder flies.
'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know
How fleeting is this world below,
Where all that meets the morning light,
Is changed before the fall of night!

I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire,
  "Swift, swift the tide of being runs,
"And Time, who bids thy flame expire,
  "Will also quench yon heaven of suns."

Oh, then if earth's united power
Can never chain one feathery hour;
If every print we leave to-day
To-morrow's wave will sweep away;
Who pauses to inquire of heaven
Why were the fleeting treasures given,
The sunny days, the shady nights,
And all their brief but dear delights,
Which heaven has made for man to use,
And man should think it crime to lose?
Who that has culled a fresh-blown rose
Will ask it why it breathes and glows,
Unmindful of the blushing ray,
In which it shines its soul away;
Unmindful of the scented sigh,
With which it dies and loves to die.

Pleasure, thou only good on earth[2]
One precious moment given to thee—
Oh! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth
  The sage's immortality.

Then far be all the wisdom hence,
  That would our joys one hour delay!
Alas, the feast of soul and sense
  Love calls us to in youth's bright day,
  If not soon tasted, fleets away.
Ne'er wert thou formed, my Lamp, to shed
  Thy splendor on a lifeless page;—
Whate'er my blushing Lais said
  Of thoughtful lore and studies sage,
'Twas mockery all—her glance of joy
Told me thy dearest, best employ.
And, soon, as night shall close the eye
  Of heaven's young wanderer in the west;
When seers are gazing on the sky,
  To find their future orbs of rest;
Then shall I take my trembling way,
  Unseen but to those worlds above,
And, led by thy mysterious ray,
  Steal to the night-bower of my love.

[1] It does not appear to have been very difficult to become a philosopher amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with a considerable portion of confidence, and just wit enough to produce an occasional apophthegm, seem to have been all the qualifications necessary for the purpose.

[2] Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness, in which idea he differed from the Epicureans, who looked to a state of repose as the only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively agitations of pleasure, as a violent and ungraceful derangement of the senses.

TO MRS,—-.

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF VOITURE'S KISS.

    Mon ame sur mon lèvre étoit lors toute entière.
    Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre étoit;
    Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière,
      Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'a restoit.
                      VOITURE.

How heavenly was the poet's doom,
  To breathe his spirit through a kiss:
And lose within so sweet a tomb
  The trembling messenger of bliss!

And, sure his soul returned to feel
  That it again could ravished be;
For in the kiss that thou didst steal,
  His life and soul have fled to thee.

RONDEAU.

"Good night! good night!"—And is it so?
And must I from my Rosa go?
Oh Rosa, say "Good night!" once more,
And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er,
Till the first glance of dawning light
Shall find us saying, still, "Good night."

And still "Good night," my Rosa, say—
But whisper still, "A minute stay;"
And I will stay, and every minute
Shall have an age of transport in it;
Till Time himself shall stay his flight,
To listen to our sweet "Good night."

"Good night!" you'll murmur with a sigh,
And tell me it is time to fly:
And I will vow, will swear to go,
While still that sweet voice murmurs "No!"
Till slumber seal our weary sight—
And then, my love, my soul, "Good night!"

SONG.

Why does azure deck the sky?
  'Tis to be like thy looks of blue.
Why is red the rose's dye?
  Because it is thy blushes' hue.
All that's fair, by Love's decree,
  Has been made resembling thee!

Why is falling snow so white,
  But to be like thy bosom fair!
Why are solar beams so bright?
  That they may seem thy golden hair!
All that's bright, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

Why are nature's beauties felt?
 Oh! 'tis thine in her we see!
Why has music power to melt?
 Oh! because it speaks like thee.
All that's sweet, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

TO ROSA.

Like one who trusts to summer skies,
  And puts his little bark to sea,
Is he who, lured by smiling eyes,
  Consigns his simple heart to thee.

For fickle is the summer wind,
  And sadly may the bark be tost;
For thou art sure to change thy mind,
  And then the wretched heart is lost!

WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING.

TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES.

This tribute's from a wretched elf,
Who hails thee, emblem of himself.
The book of life, which I have traced,
Has been, like thee, a motley waste
Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er,
One folly bringing hundreds more.
Some have indeed been writ so neat,
In characters so fair, so sweet,
That those who judge not too severely,
Have said they loved such follies dearly!
Yet still, O book! the allusion stands;
For these were penned by female hands:
The rest—alas! I own the truth—
Have all been scribbled so uncouth
That Prudence, with a withering look,
Disdainful, flings away the book.
Like thine, its pages here and there
Have oft been stained with blots of care;
And sometimes hours of peace, I own,
Upon some fairer leaves have shone,
White as the snowings of that heaven
By which those hours of peace were given;
But now no longer—such, oh, such
The blast of Disappointment's touch!—
No longer now those hours appear;
Each leaf is sullied by a tear:
Blank, blank is every page with care,
Not even a folly brightens there.
Will they yet brighten?—never, never!
Then shut the book, O God, for ever!

TO ROSA.

Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears
  At a meeting of rapture like this,
When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years
  Have been paid by one moment of bliss?

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight,
  Which dwells on her memory yet?
Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night,
  From the warmth of the sun that has set?

Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,
  That smile, which is loveliest then;
And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,
  Thou shalt weep them again and again.

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

Light sounds the harp when the combat is over,
  When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom;
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
  And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
     But, when the foe returns,
     Again the hero burns;
High flames the sword in his hand once more:
     The clang of mingling arms
     Is then the sound that charms,
And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;—
Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over—
  When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom—
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
  And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
  Lay lulled on the white arm of Beauty to rest,
When round his rich armor the myrtle hung twining,
  And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
     But, when the battle came,
     The hero's eye breathed flame:
Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;
     While, to his waking ear,
     No other sounds were dear
But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.
But then came the light harp, when danger was ended,
  And Beauty once more lulled the War-God to rest;
When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,
  And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER.

Fill high the cup with liquid flame,
And speak my Heliodora's name.
Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,
And let the sound my lips adore,
Live in the breeze, till every tone,
And word, and breath, speaks her alone.

Give me the wreath that withers there,
  It was but last delicious night,
It circled her luxuriant hair,
  And caught her eyes' reflected light.
Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow,
'Tis all of her that's left me now.
And see—each rosebud drops a tear,
To find the nymph no longer here—
No longer, where such heavenly charms
As hers should be—within these arms.

SONG.

Fly from the world, O Bessy! to me,
  Thou wilt never find any sincerer;
I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee,
  I can never meet any that's dearer.
Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh,
  That our loves will be censured by many;
All, all have their follies, and who will deny
  That ours is the sweetest of any?

When your lip has met mine, in communion so sweet,
  Have we felt as if virtue forbid it?—
Have we felt as if heaven denied them to meet?—
  No, rather 'twas heaven that did it.
So innocent, love, is the joy we then sip,
  So little of wrong is there in it,
That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip,
  And I'd kiss them away in a minute.

Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed,
  From a world which I know thou despisest;
And slumber will hover as light o'er our bed!
  As e'er on the couch of the wisest.
And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven,
  And thou, pretty innocent, fearest,
I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of heaven,
  'Tis only our lullaby, dearest.

And, oh! while, we lie on our deathbed, my love,
  Looking back on the scene of our errors,
A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above,
  And Death be disarmed of his terrors,
And each to the other embracing will say,
  "Farewell! let us hope we're forgiven."
Thy last fading glance will illumine the way,
  And a kiss be our passport to heaven!

THE RESEMBLANCE.

    —— vo cercand' io,
    Donna quant' e possibile in altrui
    La desiata vostra forma vera.
           PETRARC, Sonett. 14.

Yes, if 'twere any common love,
  That led my pliant heart astray,
I grant, there's not a power above
  Could wipe the faithless crime away.

But 'twas my doom to err with one
  In every look so like to thee
That, underneath yon blessed sun
  So fair there are but thou and she

Both born of beauty, at a birth,
  She held with thine a kindred sway,
And wore the only shape on earth
  That could have lured my soul to stray.

Then blame me not, if false I be,
  'Twas love that waked the fond excess;
My heart had been more true to thee,
  Had mine eye prized thy beauty less.

FANNY, DEAREST.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
  Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
  To tears when thou art nigh.
But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
  So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
  Is more than my heart can give.
Then bid me not to despair and pine,
  Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,
  Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
  Fanny, dearest, thy image lies;
But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine,
  If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
  Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
  That I keep my eye-beam clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow,
  Fanny, dearest—the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
  I shall never attempt it with rain.

THE RING.

TO …. ….

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 bless the bond itself hath formed.

But then, that eye, that burning eye,—
  Oh! it doth ask, with witching power,
If heaven can ever bless the tie
  Where love inwreaths 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.

I cannot warn thee: every touch,
  That brings my pulses close to thine,
Tells me I want thy aid as much—
  Even more, alas, than thou dost mine.

Yet, stay,—one hope, one effort yet—
  A moment turn those eyes a way,
And let me, if I can, forget
  The light that leads my soul astray.

Thou sayest, that we were born to meet,
  That our hearts bear one common seal;—
Think, Lady, think, how man's deceit
  Can seem to sigh and feign to feel.

When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought,
  Like daybeams through the morning air,
Hath gradual stole, and I have caught
  The feeling ere it kindled there;

The sympathy I then betrayed,
  Perhaps was but the child of art,
The guile of one, who long hath played
  With all these wily nets of heart.

Oh! thine is not my earliest vow;
  Though few the years I yet have told,
Canst thou believe I've lived till now,
  With loveless heart or senses cold?

No—other nymphs to joy and pain
  This wild and wandering heart hath moved;
With some it sported, wild and vain,
  While some it dearly, truly, loved.

The cheek to thine I fondly lay,
  To theirs hath been as fondly laid;
The words to thee I warmly say,
  To them have been as warmly said.

Then, scorn at once a worthless heart,
  Worthless alike, or fixt or free;
Think of the pure, bright soul thou art,
  And—love not me, oh love not me.

Enough—now, turn thine eyes again;
  What, still that look and still that sigh!
Dost thou not feel my counsel then?
  Oh! no, beloved,—nor do I.

TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL.

They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite,
That you're not a true daughter of ether and light,
Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms
That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms;
That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your eye
As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky.
But I will not believe them—no, Science, to you
I have long bid a last and a careless adieu:
Still flying from Nature to study her laws,
And dulling delight by exploring its cause,
You forget how superior, for mortals below,
Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know.
Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete,
Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet;
How rays are confused, or how particles fly
Through the medium refined of a glance or a sigh;
Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it,
Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it?

  As for you, my sweet-voiced and invisible love,
You must surely be one of those spirits, that rove
By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines,
When the star of the west on his solitude shines,
And the magical fingers of fancy have hung
Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue.
Oh! hint to him then, 'tis retirement alone
Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone;
Like you, with a veil of seclusion between,
His song to the world let him utter unseen,
And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres,
Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears.

  Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love,
In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove,
To have you thus ever invisibly nigh,
Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh!
Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care,
I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air,
And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew,
To steal in the pauses one whisper from you.
Then, come and be near me, for ever be mine,
We shall hold in the air a communion divine,
As sweet as, of old, was imagined to dwell
In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell.
And oft, at those lingering moments of night,
When the heart's busy thoughts have put slumber to flight,
You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love,
Such as angel to angel might whisper above.
Sweet spirit!—and then, could you borrow the tone
Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known,
The voice of the one upon earth, who has twined
With her being for ever my heart and my mind,
Though lonely and far from the light of her smile,
An exile, and weary and hopeless the while,
Could you shed for a moment her voice on my ear.
I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near;
That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak,
And kisses my eyelid and breathes on my cheek,
And tells me the night shall go rapidly by,
For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh.

Fair spirit! if such be your magical power,
It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour;
And, let fortune's realities frown as they will,
Hope, fancy, and Cara may smile for me still.

THE RING[1]

A TALE

    Annulus ille viri.
    OVID. "Amor." lib. ii. eleg. 15.

The happy day at length arrived
  When Rupert was to wed
The fairest maid in Saxony,
  And take her to his bed.

As soon as morn was in the sky,
  The feast and sports began;
The men admired the happy maid,
  The maids the happy man.

In many a sweet device of mirth
  The day was past along;
And some the featly dance amused,
  And some the dulcet song.

The younger maids with Isabel
  Disported through the bowers,
And decked her robe, and crowned her head
  With motley bridal flowers.

The matrons all in rich attire,
  Within the castle walls,
Sat listening to the choral strains
  That echoed, through the halls.

Young Rupert and his friends repaired
  Unto a spacious court,
To strike the bounding tennis-ball
  In feat and manly sport.

The bridegroom on his finger wore
  The wedding-ring so bright,
Which was to grace the lily hand
  Of Isabel that night.

And fearing he might break the gem,
  Or lose it in the play,
Hie looked around the court, to see
  Where he the ring might lay.

Now, in the court a statue stood,
  Which there full long had been;
It might a Heathen goddess be,
  Or else, a Heathen queen.

Upon its marble finger then
  He tried the ring to fit;
And, thinking it was safest there,
  Thereon he fastened it.

And now the tennis sports went on,
  Till they were wearied all,
And messengers announced to them
  Their dinner in the hall,

Young Rupert for his wedding-ring
  Unto the statue went;
But, oh, how shocked was he to find
  The marble finger bent!

The hand was closed upon the ring
  With firm and mighty clasp;
In vain he tried and tried and tried,
  He could not loose the grasp!

Then sore surprised was Rupert's mind—
  As well his mind might be;
"I'll come," quoth he, "at night again,
  "When none are here to see."

He went unto the feast, and much
  He thought upon his ring;
And marvelled sorely what could mean
  So very strange a thing!

The feast was o'er, and to the court
  He hied without delay,
Resolved to break the marble hand
  And force the ring away.

But, mark a stranger wonder still—
  The ring was there no more
And yet the marble hand ungrasped,
  And open as before!

He searched the base, and all the court,
  But nothing could he find;
Then to the castle hied he back
  With sore bewildered mind.

Within he found them all in mirth,
  The night in dancing flew:
The youth another ring procured,
  And none the adventure knew.

And now the priest has joined their hands,
  The hours of love advance:
Rupert almost forgets to think
  Upon the morn's mischance.

Within the bed fair Isabel
  In blushing sweetness lay,
Like flowers, half-opened by the
    dawn,
  And waiting for the day.

And Rupert, by her lovely side,
  In youthful beauty glows,
Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast
  His beams upon a rose.

And here my song would leave them both,
  Nor let the rest be told,
If 'twere not for the horrid tale
  It yet has to unfold.

Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him
  A death cold carcass found;
He saw it not, but thought he felt
  Its arms embrace him round.

He started up, and then returned,
  But found the phantom still;
In vain he shrunk, it clipt him
    round,
  With damp and deadly chill!

And when he bent, the earthy lips
  A kiss of horror gave;
'Twas like the smell from charnel vaults,
  Or from the mouldering grave!

Ill-fated Rupert!—wild and loud
  Then cried he to his wife,
"Oh! save me from this horrid fiend,
  "My Isabel! my life!"

But Isabel had nothing seen,
  She looked around in vain;
And much she mourned the mad conceit
  That racked her Rupert's brain.

At length from this invisible
  These words to Rupert came:
(Oh God! while he did hear the words
  What terrors shook his frame!)

"Husband, husband, I've the ring
  "Thou gavest to-day to me;
"And thou'rt to me for ever wed,
  "As I am wed to thee!"

And all the night the demon lay
  Cold-chilling by his side,
And strained him with such deadly grasp,
  He thought he should have died.

But when the dawn of day was near,
  The horrid phantom fled,
And left the affrighted youth to weep
  By Isabel in bed.

And all that day a gloomy cloud
  Was seen on Rupert's brows;
Fair Isabel was likewise sad,
  But strove to cheer her spouse.

And, as the day advanced, he thought
  Of coming night with fear:
Alas, that he should dread to view
  The bed that should be dear!

At length the second night arrived,
  Again their couch they prest;
Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er,
  And looked for love and rest.

But oh! when midnight came, again
  The fiend was at his side,
And, as it strained him in its grasp,
  With howl exulting cried:—

"Husband, husband, I've the ring,
  "The ring thou gavest to me;
"And thou'rt to me for ever wed,
  "As I am wed to thee!",

In agony of wild despair,
  He started from the bed;
And thus to his bewildered wife
  The trembling Rupert said;

"Oh Isabel! dost thou not see
  "A shape of horrors here,
"That strains me to its deadly kiss,
  "And keeps me from my dear?"

"No, no, my love! my Rupert, I
  "No shape of horrors see;
"And much I mourn the fantasy
  "That keeps my dear from me."

This night, just like the night before,
  In terrors past away.
Nor did the demon vanish thence
  Before the dawn of day.

Said Rupert then, "My Isabel,
  "Dear partner of my woe.
"To Father Austin's holy cave
  "This instant will I go."

Now Austin was a reverend man,
  Who acted wonders maint—
Whom all the country round believed
  A devil or a saint!

To Father Austin's holy cave
  Then Rupert straightway went;
And told him all, and asked him how
  These horrors to prevent.

The father heard the youth, and then
  Retired awhile to pray:
And, having prayed for half an hour
  Thus to the youth did say:

"There is a place where four roads meet,
  "Which I will tell to thee;
"Be there this eve, at fall of night,
  "And list what thou shalt see.

"Thou'lt see a group of figures pass
  "In strange disordered crowd,
"Travelling by torchlight through the roads,
  "With noises strange and loud.

"And one that's high above the rest,
  "Terrific towering o'er,
"Will make thee know him at a glance,
  "So I need say no more.

"To him from me these tablets give,
  "They'll quick be understood;
"Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight,
  "I've scrawled them with my blood!"

The night-fall came, and Rupert all
  In pale amazement went
To where the cross-roads met, as he
  Was by the Father sent.

And lo! a group of figures came
  In strange disordered crowd.
Travelling by torchlight through the roads,
  With noises strange and loud.

And, as the gloomy train advanced,
  Rupert beheld from far
A female form of wanton mien
  High seated on a car.

And Rupert, as he gazed upon
  The loosely-vested dame,
Thought of the marble statue's look,
  For hers was just the same.

Behind her walked a hideous form,
  With eyeballs flashing death;
Whene'er he breathed, a sulphured smoke
  Came burning in his breath.

He seemed the first of all the crowd,
  Terrific towering o'er;
"Yes, yes," said Rupert, "this is he,
  "And I need ask no more."

Then slow he went, and to this fiend
  The tablets trembling gave,
Who looked and read them with a yell
  That would disturb the grave.

And when he saw the blood-scrawled name,
  His eyes with fury shine;
"I thought," cries he, "his time was out,
  "But he must soon be mine!"

Then darting at the youth a look
  Which rent his soul with fear,
He went unto the female fiend,
  And whispered in her ear.

The female fiend no sooner heard
  Than, with reluctant look,
The very ring that Rupert lost,
  She from her finger took.

And, giving it unto the youth,
  With eyes that breathed of hell,
She said, in that tremendous voice,
  Which he remembered well:

"In Austin's name take back the ring,
  "The ring thou gavest to me;
"And thou'rt to me no longer wed,
  "Nor longer I to thee."

He took the ring, the rabble past.
  He home returned again;
His wife was then the happiest fair,
  The happiest he of men.

[1] I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions of frightening the nursery by this story; I rather hope—though the manner of it leads me to doubt—that his design was to ridicule that distempered taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the "speciosa miracula" of true poetic imagination.

TO …. ….

ON SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE.

Put off the vestal Veil, nor, oh!
  Let weeping angels View it;
Your cheeks belie its virgin snow.
  And blush repenting through it.

Put off the fatal zone you wear;
  The shining pearls around it
Are tears, that fell from Virtue there,
  The hour when Love unbound it.

WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK.

Here is one leaf reserved for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within thy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet hath been,
Oh! it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there!

TO MRS. BL——.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

They say that Love had once a book
  (The urchin likes to copy you),
Where, all who came, the pencil took,
  And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,
  Who kept this volume bright and fair.
And saw that no unhallowed line
  Or thought profane should enter there;

And daily did the pages fill
  With fond device and loving lore,
And every leaf she turned was still
  More bright than that she turned before.

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
  How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas, as oft,
  And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropt from Grief,
  And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf,
  Which Love had still to smooth again.

But, ah! there came a blooming boy,
  Who often turned the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
  That all who read them sighed for more.

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,
  And though so soft his voice and look,
Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,
  Would tremble for her spotless book.

For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore,
  With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright;
And much she feared lest, mantling o'er,
Some drops should on the pages light.

And so it chanced, one luckless night,
  The urchin let that goblet fall
O'er the fair book, so pure, so white,
  And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain now, touched with shame, he tried
  To wash those fatal stains away;
Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide,
  The leaves grew darker everyday.

And Fancy's sketches lost their hue,
  And Hope's sweet lines were all effaced,
And Love himself now scarcely knew
  What Love himself so lately traced.

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,
  (For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?)
And Love, while many a tear he shed,
  Reluctant flung the book away.

The index now alone remains.
  Of all the pages spoiled by Pleasure,
And though it bears some earthly stains,
  Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure.

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,
  And oft, by this memorial aided,
Brings back the pages now no more,
  And thinks of lines that long have faded.

I know not if this tale be true,
  But thus the simple facts are stated;
And I refer their truth to you,
  Since Love and you are near related.

TO CARA,

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

Concealed within the shady wood
  A mother left her sleeping child,
And flew, to cull her rustic food,
  The fruitage of the forest wild.

But storms upon her pathway rise,
  The mother roams, astray and weeping;
Far from the weak appealing cries
  Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.

She hopes, she fears; a light is seen,
  And gentler blows the night wind's breath;
Yet no—'tis gone—the storms are keen,
  The infant may be chilled to death!

Perhaps, even now, in darkness shrouded,
  His little eyes lie cold and still;—
And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded,
  Life and love may light them still.

Thus, Cara, at our last farewell,
  When, fearful even thy hand to touch,
I mutely asked those eyes to tell
  If parting pained thee half so much:

I thought,—and, oh! forgive the thought,
  For none was e'er by love inspired
Whom fancy had not also taught
  To hope the bliss his soul desired.

Yes, I did think, in Cara's mind,
  Though yet to that sweet mind unknown,
I left one infant wish behind,
  One feeling, which I called my own.

Oh blest! though but in fancy blest,
  How did I ask of Pity's care,
To shield and strengthen, in thy breast,
  The nursling I had cradled there.

And, many an hour, beguiled by pleasure,
  And many an hour of sorrow numbering,
I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure,
  I left within thy bosom slumbering.

Perhaps, indifference has not chilled it,
  Haply, it yet a throb may give—
Yet, no—perhaps, a doubt has killed it;
  Say, dearest—does the feeling live?

TO CARA,

ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DAY.

When midnight came to close the year,
  We sighed to think it thus should take
The hours it gave us—hours as dear
  As sympathy and love could make
Their blessed moments,—every sun
Saw us, my love, more closely one.

But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh
  Which came a new year's light to shed,
That smile we caught from eye to eye
  Told us, those moments were not fled:
Oh, no,—we felt, some future sun
Should see us still more closely one.

Thus may we ever, side by side,
From happy years to happier glide;
And still thus may the passing sigh
  We give to hours, that vanish o'er us,
Be followed by the smiling eye,
  That Hope shall shed on scenes before us!

TO ……., 1801.

To be the theme of every hour
The heart devotes to Fancy's power,
When her prompt magic fills the mind
With friends and joys we've left behind,
And joys return and friends are near,
And all are welcomed with a tear:—
In the mind's purest seat to dwell,
To be remembered oft and well
By one whose heart, though vain and wild,
By passion led, by youth beguiled,
Can proudly still aspire to be
All that may yet win smiles from thee:—
If thus to live in every part
Of a lone, weary wanderer's heart;
If thus to be its sole employ
Can give thee one faint gleam of joy,
Believe it. Mary,—oh! believe
A tongue that never can deceive,
Though, erring, it too oft betray
Even more than Love should dare to say,—
In Pleasure's dream or Sorrow's hour,
In crowded hall or lonely bower,
The business of my life shall be,
For ever to remember thee.
And though that heart be dead to mine,
Since Love is life and wakes not thine,
I'll take thy image, as the form
Of one whom Love had failed to warm,
Which, though it yield no answering thrill,
Is not less dear, is worshipt still—
I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray,
The bright, cold burden of my way.
To keep this semblance fresh in bloom,
My heart shall be its lasting tomb,
And Memory, with embalming care,
Shall keep it fresh and fadeless there.

THE GENIUS OF HARMONY.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

    Ad harmoniam canere mundum.
    CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii.

  There 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 syren fell,
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,[1]
  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![2]
      And thou shalt own,
  That, through the circle of creation's zone,
  Where matter slumbers or where spirit beams;
  From the pellucid tides,[3] 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,[4]
To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields
        On Afric's burning fields;[5]
  Thou'lt wondering 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,[6]
    Many a tear has Saturn's urn
  O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,
    Since thy aerial spell
    Hath in the waters slept.
        Now blest I'll fly
  With the bright treasure to my choral sky,
    Where she, who waked its early swell,
    The Syren of the heavenly choir.
Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre;
  Or guides around the burning pole
  The winged chariot of some blissful soul:
        While thou—
Oh son of earth, what dreams shall rise for thee!
    Beneath Hispania's sun,
    Thou'll see a streamlet run,
  Which I've imbued with breathing melody;[7]
And there, when night-winds down the current die,
Thou'lt hear how like a harp its waters sigh:
A liquid chord is every wave that flows,
An airy plectrum every breeze that blows.

  There, by that wondrous stream,
  Go, lay thy languid brow,
And I will send thee such a godlike dream,
As never blest the slumbers even of him,[8]
Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre,
    Sate on the chill Pangaean mount,[9]
  And, looking to the orient dim,
Watched the first flowing of that sacred fount,
From which his soul had drunk its fire.
Oh think what visions, in that lonely hour,
  Stole o'er his musing breast;
      What pious ecstasy
Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power,
Whose seal upon this new-born world imprest
The various forms of bright divinity!
  Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove,
  Mid the deep horror of that silent bower,[10]
Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber?
      When, free
    From every earthly chain,
From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain,
  His spirit flew through fields above,
Drank at the source of nature's fontal number,
And saw, in mystic choir, around him move
The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy!
  Such dreams, so heavenly bright,
      I swear
By the great diadem that twines my hair,
And by the seven gems that sparkle there,
      Mingling their beams
  In a soft iris of harmonious light,
Oh, mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams.

* * * * *

I found her not—the chamber seemed
  Like some divinely haunted place
Where fairy forms had lately beamed,
  And left behind their odorous trace!

It felt as if her lips had shed
A sigh around her, ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air
Of melodies which had been there.

I saw the veil, which, all the day,
  Had floated o'er her cheek of rose;
I saw the couch, where late she lay
  In languor of divine repose;
And I could trace the hallowed print
  Her limbs had left, as pure and warm,
As if 'twere done in rapture's mint,
  And Love himself had stamped the form.

Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou?
  In pity fly not thus from me;
Thou art my life, my essence now,
  And my soul dies of wanting thee.

[1] In the "Histoire Naturelle des Antilles," there is an account of some curious shells, found at Curaçoa, on the back of which were lines, filled with musical characters so distinct and perfect, that the writer assures us a very charming trio was sung from one of them. The author adds, a poet might imagine that these shells were used by the syrens at their concerts.

[2] According to Cicero, and his commentator, Macrobius, the lunar tone is the gravest and faintest on the planetary heptachord.

[3] Leucippus, the atomist, imagined a kind of vortices in the heavens, which he borrowed from Anaxagoras, and possibly suggested to Descartes.

[4] Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures that the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, who, in representing the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the air.

[5] In the account of Africa which D'Ablancourt has translated, there is mention of a tree in that country, whose branches, when shaken by the hand produce very sweet sounds.

[6] Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of those fixed stars, which we are taught to consider as suns, attended each by its system. Descartes thought that our earth might formerly have been a sun, which became obscured by a thick incrustation over its surface. This probably suggested the idea of a central fire.

[7] This musical river is mentioned in the romance of Achilles Tatius.

[8] Orpheus.

[9] Eratosthenes, in mentioning the extreme veneration of Orpheus for Apollo, says that he was accustomed to go to the Pangaean mountain at daybreak, and there wait the rising of the sun, that he might be the first to hail its beams.

[10] Alluding to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras devoted the greater part of his days and nights to meditation and the mysteries of his philosophy.

TO MRS. HENRY TIGHE,

ON READING HER "PSYCHE."

Tell me the witching tale again,
  For never has my heart or ear
Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,
  So pure to feel, so sweet to hear.

Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame,
  When the high heaven itself was thine;
When piety confest the flame,
  And even thy errors were divine;

Did ever Muse's hand, so fair,
  A glory round thy temple spread?
Did ever lip's ambrosial air
  Such fragrance o'er thy altars shed?

One maid there was, who round her lyre
  The mystic myrtle wildly wreathed;—
But all her sighs were sighs of fire,
  The myrtle withered as she breathed.

Oh! you that love's celestial dream,
  In all its purity, would know,
Let not the senses' ardent beam
  Too strongly through the vision glow.

Love safest lies, concealed in night,
  The night where heaven has bid him lie;
Oh! shed not there unhallowed light,
  Or, Psyche knows, the boy will fly.

Sweet Psyche, many a charmed hour,
  Through many a wild and magic waste,
To the fair fount and blissful bower
  Have I, in dreams, thy light foot traced!

Where'er thy joys are numbered now,
  Beneath whatever shades of rest,
The Genius of the starry brow
  Hath bound thee to thy Cupid's breast;

Whether above the horizon dim,
  Along whose verge our spirits stray,—
Half sunk beneath the shadowy rim,
  Half brightened by the upper ray,[1]—

Thou dwellest in a world, all light,
  Or, lingering here, doth love to be,
To other souls, the guardian bright
  That Love was, through this gloom, to thee;

Still be the song to Psyche dear,
  The song, whose gentle voice was given
To be, on earth, to mortal ear,
  An echo of her own, in heaven.

[1] By this image the Platonists expressed the middle state of the soul between sensible and intellectual existence.

FROM THE HIGH PRIEST OF APOLLO TO A VIRGIN OF DELPHI.[1]

    Cum digno digna…..
                       SULPICIA.

"Who is the maid, with golden hair,
"With eye of fire, and foot of air,
"Whose harp around my altar swells,
"The sweetest of a thousand shells?"
'Twas thus the deity, who treads
The arch of heaven, and proudly sheds
Day from his eyelids—thus he spoke,
As through my cell his glories broke.

  Aphelia is the Delphic fair[2]
With eyes of fire and golden hair,
Aphelia's are the airy feet.
And hers the harp divinely sweet;
For foot so light has never trod
The laurelled caverns of the god.
Nor harp so soft hath ever given
A sigh to earth or hymn to heaven.

  "Then tell the virgin to unfold,
"In looser pomp, her locks of gold,
"And bid those eyes more fondly shine
"To welcome down a Spouse Divine;
"Since He, who lights the path of years—
"Even from the fount of morning's tears
"To where his setting splendors burn
"Upon the western sea-maid's urn—
"Doth not, in all his course, behold
"Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold.
"Tell her, he comes, in blissful pride,
"His lip yet sparkling with the tide
"That mantles in Olympian bowls,—
"The nectar of eternal souls!
"For her, for her he quits the skies,
"And to her kiss from nectar flies.
"Oh, he would quit his star-throned height,
"And leave the world to pine for light,
"Might he but pass the hours of shade,
"Beside his peerless Delphic maid,
"She, more than earthly woman blest,
"He, more than god on woman's breast!"

  There is a cave beneath the steep,[3]
Where living rills of crystal weep
O'er herbage of the loveliest hue
That ever spring begemmed with dew:
There oft the greensward's glossy tint
Is brightened by the recent print
Of many a faun and naiad's feet,—
Scarce touching earth, their step so fleet,—
That there, by moonlight's ray, had trod,
In light dance, o'er the verdant sod.
"There, there," the god, impassioned, said,
"Soon as the twilight tinge is fled,
"And the dim orb of lunar souls
"Along its shadowy pathway rolls—
"There shall we meet,—and not even He,
"The God who reigns immortally,
"Where Babel's turrets paint their pride
"Upon the Euphrates' shining tide,[4]—
"Not even when to his midnight loves
"In mystic majesty he moves,
"Lighted by many an odorous fire,
"And hymned by all Chaldaea's choir,—
"E'er yet, o'er mortal brow, let shine
"Such effluence of Love Divine,
"As shall to-night, blest maid, o'er thine."

  Happy the maid, whom heaven allows
To break for heaven her virgin vows!
Happy the maid!—her robe of shame
Is whitened by a heavenly flame,
Whose glory, with a lingering trace,
Shines through and deifies her race!

[1] This poem, as well as a few others in the following volume, formed part of a work which I had early projected, and even announced to the public, but which, luckily, perhaps, for myself, had been interrupted by my visit to America in the year 1803.

[2] In the 9th Pythic of Pindar, where Apollo, in the same manner, requires of Chiron some information respecting the fair Cyrene, the Centaur, in obeying, very gravely apologizes for telling the God what his omniscience must know so perfectly already.

[3] The Corycian Cave, which Pausanias mentions. The inhabitants of Parnassus held it sacred to the Corycian nymphs, who were children of the river Plistus.

[4] The temple of Jupiter Belus, at Babylon; in one of whose towers there was a large chapel set apart for these celestial assignations. "No man is allowed to sleep here," says Herodotus; "but the apartment is appropriated to a female, whom, if we believe the Chaldaean priests, the deity selects from the women of the country, as his favorite."

FRAGMENT.

Pity me, love! I'll pity thee,
If thou indeed hast felt like me.
All, all my bosom's peace is o'er!
At night, which was my hour of calm,
When from the page of classic lore,
From the pure fount of ancient lay
My soul has drawn the placid balm,
Which charmed its every grief away,
Ah! there I find that balm no more.
Those spells, which make us oft forget
The fleeting troubles of the day,
In deeper sorrows only whet
The stings they cannot tear away.
When to my pillow racked I fly,
With weary sense and wakeful eye.
While my brain maddens, where, oh, where
Is that serene consoling prayer,
Which once has harbingered my rest,
When the still soothing voice of Heaven
Hath seemed to whisper in my breast,
"Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven!"
No, though I still in semblance pray,
My thoughts are wandering far away,
And even the name of Deity
Is murmured out in sighs for thee.

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

How oft a cloud, with envious veil,
  Obscures yon bashful light,
Which seems so modestly to steal
  Along the waste of night!

'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs
  Obscure with malice keen
Some timid heart, which only longs
  To live and die unseen.

THE KISS.

Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss,
On which my soul's beloved swore
That there should come a time of bliss,
When she would mock my hopes no more.
And fancy shall thy glow renew,
In sighs at morn, and dreams at night,
And none shall steal thy holy dew
Till thou'rt absolved by rapture's rite.
Sweet hours that are to make me blest,
Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal,
And let my love, my more than soul,
Come blushing to this ardent breast.
Then, while in every glance I drink
The rich overflowing of her mind,
Oh! let her all enamored sink
In sweet abandonment resigned,
Blushing for all our struggles past,
And murmuring, "I am thine at last!"

SONG.

Think on that look whose melting ray
  For one sweet moment mixt with mine,
And for that moment seemed to say,
  "I dare not, or I would be thine!"

Think on thy every smile and glance,
  On all thou hast to charm and move;
And then forgive my bosom's trance,
  Nor tell me it is sin to love.

Oh, not to love thee were the sin;
  For sure, if Fate's decrees be done,
Thou, thou art destined still to win,
  As I am destined to be won!

THE CATALOGUE.

"Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist,
  One day she reclined on my breast;
"Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list
  "Of the nymphs you have loved and carest."—
Oh Rosa! 'twas only my fancy that roved,
  My heart at the moment was free;
But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved,
  And the number shall finish with thee.

My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild
  She taught me the way to be blest;
She taught me to love her, I loved like a child,
  But Kitty could fancy the rest.
This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore
  I have never forgot, I allow:
I have had it by rote very often before,
  But never by heart until now.

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame,
  But my head was so full of romance
That I fancied her into some chivalry dame,
  And I was her knight of the lance.
But Martha was not of this fanciful school,
  And she laughed at her poor little knight;
While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a fool,
  And I'll swear she was most in the right.

My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks,
  Again I was tempted to rove;
But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books
  That she gave me more logic than love.
So I left this young Sappho, and hastened to fly
  To those sweeter logicians in bliss,
Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye,
  And convince us at once with a kiss.

Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me,
  But Susan was piously given;
And the worst of it was, we could never agree
  On the road that was shortest to Heaven.
"Oh, Susan!" I've said, in the moments of mirth,
  "What's devotion to thee or to me?
"I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth,
  "And believe that that heaven's in thee!"

IMITATION OF CATULLUS.

TO HIMSELF.

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, etc.

Cease the sighing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;
Nor vainly think those joys thine own,
Which all, alas, have falsely flown.
What hours, Catullus, once were thine.
How fairly seemed thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst fly to meet
The girl whose smile was then so sweet—
The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain
Than e'er thy heart can feel again.

  Ye met—your souls seemed all in one,
Like tapers that commingling shone;
Thy heart was warm enough for both,
And hers, in truth, was nothing loath.

  Such were the hours that once were thine;
But, ah! those hours no longer shine.
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so much before;
And all Catullus now can do,
Is to be proud and frigid too;

Nor follow where the wanton flies,
Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
False maid! he bids farewell to thee,
To love, and all love's misery;
The heyday of his heart is o'er,
Nor will he court one favor more.

  Fly, perjured girl!—but whither fly?
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye?
Who now will drink the syren tone,
Which tells him thou art all his own?
Oh, none:—and he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more.

* * * * *

    "Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more!"
    —ST. JOHN, chap. viii.

Oh woman, if through sinful wile
  Thy soul hath strayed from honor's track,
'Tis mercy only can beguile,
  By gentle ways, the wanderer back.

The stain that on thy virtue lies,
  Washed by those tears, not long will stay;
As clouds that sully morning skies
  May all be wept in showers away.

Go, go, be innocent,—and live;
  The tongues of men may wound thee sore;
But Heaven in pity can forgive,
  And bids thee "go, and sin no more!"

NONSENSE.

Good reader! if you e'er have seen,
  When Phoebus hastens to his pillow,
The mermaids, with their tresses green,
  Dancing upon the western billow:
If you have seen, at twilight dim,
When the lone spirit's vesper hymn
  Floats wild along the winding shore,
If you have seen, through mist of eve,
The fairy train their ringlets weave,
Glancing along the spangled green:—
  If you have seen all this, and more,
God bless me, what a deal you've seen!

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH.

"I never gave a kiss (says Prue),
  "To naughty man, for I abhor it."
She will not give a kiss, 'tis true;
  She'll take one though, and thank you for it.

ON A SQUINTING POETESS.

To no one Muse does she her glance confine,
But has an eye, at once, to all the Nine!

TO …. ….

Maria pur quando vuol, non è bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per esser un Angelo.[1]

Die when you will, you need not wear
At Heaven's Court a form more fair
  Than Beauty here on earth has given;
Keep but the lovely looks we see—
The voice we hear—and you will be
  An angel ready-made for Heaven!

[1] The words addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbury to the beautiful Nun at Murano.—See his Life.

TO ROSA.

    A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti.
    "Past. Fid."

And are you then a thing of art,
  Seducing all, and loving none;
And have I strove to gain a heart
  Which every coxcomb thinks his own?

Tell me at once if this be true,
  And I will calm my jealous breast;
Will learn to join the dangling crew,
  And share your simpers with the rest.

But if your heart be not so free,—
  Oh! if another share that heart,
Tell not the hateful tale to me,
  But mingle mercy with your art.

I'd rather think you "false as hell,"
  Than find you to be all divine,—
Than know that heart could love so well,
  Yet know that heart would not be mine!

TO PHILLIS.

Phillis, you little rosy rake,
  That heart of yours I long to rifle;
Come, give it me, and do not make
  So much ado about a trifle!

TO A LADY.

ON HER SINGING.

Thy song has taught my heart to feel
  Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love,
Which o'er the sainted spirits steal
  When listening to the spheres above!

When, tired of life and misery,
  I wish to sigh my latest breath,
Oh, Emma! I will fly to thee,
  And thou shalt sing me into death.

And if along thy lip and cheek
  That smile of heavenly softness play,
Which,—ah! forgive a mind that's weak,—
  So oft has stolen my mind away.

Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky,
  That comes to charm me into bliss:
I'll gaze and die—Who would not die,
  If death were half so sweet as this?

SONG.

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MRS. ——.

WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 1799.

Of all my happiest hours of joy,
  And even I have had my measure,
When hearts were full, and every eye
  Hath kindled with the light of pleasure,
An hour like this I ne'er was given,
  So full of friendship's purest blisses;
Young Love himself looks down from heaven,
  To smile on such a day as this is.
    Then come, my friends, this hour improve,
      Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever;
And may the birth of her we love
Be thus with joy remembered ever!

Oh! banish every thought to-night,
  Which could disturb our soul's communion;
Abandoned thus to dear delight,
  We'll even for once forget the Union!
On that let statesmen try their powers,
  And tremble o'er the rights they'd die for;
The union of the soul be ours,
  And every union else we sigh for.
    Then come, my friends, etc.

In every eye around I mark
  The feelings of the heart o'er-flowing;
From every soul I catch the spark
  Of sympathy, in friendship glowing.
Oh! could such moments ever fly;
  Oh! that we ne'er were doomed to lose 'em;
And all as bright as Charlotte's eye,
  And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom.
    Then come, my friends, etc.

For me, whate'er my span of years,
  Whatever sun may light my roving;
Whether I waste my life in tears,
  Or live, as now, for mirth and loving;
This day shall come with aspect kind,
  Wherever fate may cast your rover;
He'll think of those he left behind,
  And drink a health to bliss that's over!
    Then come, my friends, etc.

SONG.[1]

Mary, I believed thee true,
  And I was blest in thus believing
But now I mourn that e'er I knew
  A girl so fair and so deceiving.
    Fare thee well.

Few have ever loved like me,—
  Yes, I have loved thee too sincerely!
And few have e'er deceived like thee.—
  Alas! deceived me too severely.

Fare thee well!—yet think awhile
  On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee:
Who now would rather trust that smile,
  And die with thee than live without thee.

Fare thee well! I'll think of thee.
  Thou leavest me many a bitter token;
For see, distracting woman, see,
  My peace is gone, my heart is broken!—
    Fare thee well!

[1] These words were written to the pathetic Scotch air "Galla Water."

MORALITY.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ. M. R. I. A.

Though long at school and college dozing.
O'er books of verse and books of prosing,
And copying from their moral pages
Fine recipes for making sages;
Though long with' those divines at school,
Who think to make us good by rule;
Who, in methodic forms advancing,
Teaching morality like dancing,
Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake.
What steps we are through life to take:
Though thus, my friend, so long employed,
With so much midnight oil destroyed,
I must confess my searches past,
I've only learned to doubt at last
I find the doctors and the sages
Have differed in all climes and ages,
And two in fifty scarce agree
On what is pure morality.
'Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone,
And every vision makes its own.

  The doctors of the Porch advise,
As modes of being great and wise,
That we should cease to own or know
The luxuries that from feeling flow;
"Reason alone must claim direction,
"And Apathy's the soul's perfection.
"Like a dull lake the heart must lie;
"Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh,
"Though Heaven the breeze, the breath, supplied,
"Must curl the wave or swell the tide!"

  Such was the rigid Zeno's plan
To form his philosophic man;
Such were the modes he taught mankind
To weed the garden of the mind;
They tore from thence some weeds, 'tis true,
But all the flowers were ravaged too!

  Now listen to the wily strains,
Which, on Cyrene's sandy plains,
When Pleasure, nymph with loosened zone,
Usurped the philosophic throne,—
Hear what the courtly sage's[1] tongue
To his surrounding pupils sung:—
"Pleasure's the only noble end
"To which all human powers should tend,
"And Virtue gives her heavenly lore,
"But to make Pleasure please us more.
"Wisdom and she were both designed
"To make the senses more refined,
"That man might revel, free from cloying,
"Then most a sage when most enjoying!"

  Is this morality?—Oh, no!
Even I a wiser path could show.
The flower within this vase confined,
The pure, the unfading flower of mind,
Must not throw all its sweets away
Upon a mortal mould of clay;
No, no,—its richest breath should rise
In virtue's incense to the skies.

  But thus it is, all sects we see
Have watchwords of morality:
Some cry out Venus, others Jove;
Here 'tis Religion, there 'tis Love.
But while they thus so widely wander,
While mystics dream and doctors ponder:
And some, in dialectics firm,
Seek virtue in a middle term;
While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance,
To chain morality with science;
The plain good man, whose action teach
More virtue than a sect can preach
Pursues his course, unsagely blest
His tutor whispering in his breast;
Nor could he act a purer part,
Though he had Tully all by heart.
And when he drops the tear on woe,
He little knows or cares to know
That Epictetus blamed that tear,
By Heaven approved, to virtue dear!

  Oh! when I've seen the morning beam
Floating within the dimpled stream;
While Nature, wakening from the night,
Has just put on her robes of light,
Have I, with cold optician's gaze,
Explored the doctrine of those rays?
No, pedants, I have left to you
Nicely to separate hue from hue.
Go, give that moment up to art,
When Heaven and nature claim the heart;
And, dull to all their best attraction,
Go—measure angles of refraction.
While I, in feeling's sweet romance,
Look on each daybeam as a glance
From the great eye of Him above,
Wakening his world with looks of love!

[1] Aristippus.

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 numbers 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 when young lovers talked alone,
  If, mid their bliss, that Lyre was near,
It made their accents all its own,
  And sent forth 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,
  When the first star announced the night,—
With him who claimed her inmost soul,
  To wander by that soothing light.

It chanced that, in the fairy bower
  Where blest they wooed each other's smile,
This Lyre, of strange and magic power,
  Hung whispering o'er their head the while.

And as, with eyes commingling fire,
  They listened to each other's vow,
The youth full oft would make the Lyre
  A pillow for the maiden's brow!

And, while the melting words she breathed
  Were by its echoes wafted round,
Her locks had with the chords so wreathed,
  One knew not which gave forth the sound.

Alas, their hearts but little thought,
 While thus they talked the hours away,
That every sound the Lyre was taught
 Would linger long, and long betray.

So mingled with its tuneful soul
 Were all the tender murmurs grown,
That other sighs unanswered stole,
 Nor words it breathed but theirs alone.

Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung
 To every breeze that wandered by;
The secrets of thy gentle tongue
 Were breathed in song to earth and sky.

The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand
 Hung high amid the whispering groves,
To every gale by which 'twas fanned,
 Proclaimed the mystery of your loves.

Nor long thus rudely was thy name
 To earth's derisive echoes given;
Some pitying spirit downward came.
 And took the Lyre and thee to heaven.

There, freed from earth's unholy wrongs,
 Both happy in Love's home shall be;
Thou, uttering naught but seraph songs,
 And that sweet Lyre still echoing thee!

PEACE AND GLORY.

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.

Where is now the smile, that lightened
 Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope, that brightened
 Honor's eye and Pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
 For our weary warrior men?
Is the faithless olive faded?
 Must the bay be plucked again?

Passing hour of sunny weather,
 Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,
 Wandered through our blessed isle.
And the eyes of Peace would glisten,
 Dewy as a morning sun,
When the timid maid would listen
 To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over?
 Must the maiden's trembling feet
Waft her from her warlike lover
 To the desert's still retreat?
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
 Nymph so fair and guests so bright;
Yet the smile, with which you vanish,
 Leaves behind a soothing light;—

Soothing light, that long shall sparkle
 O'er your warrior's sanguined way,
Through the field where horrors darkle,
 Shedding hope's consoling ray.
Long the smile his heart will cherish,
 To its absent idol true;
While around him myriads perish,
 Glory still will sigh for you!

SONG.

Take back the sigh, thy lips of art
 In passion's moment breathed to me;
Yet, no—it must not, will not part,
 'Tis now the life-breath of my heart,
And has become too pure for thee.

Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh
  With all the warmth of truth imprest;
Yet, no—the fatal kiss may lie,
Upon thy lip its sweets would die,
  Or bloom to make a rival blest.

Take back the vows that, night and day,
  My heart received, I thought, from thine;
Yet, no—allow them still to stay,
They might some other heart betray,
  As sweetly as they've ruined mine.

LOVE AND REASON.

Quand l'homme commence à raissonner, il cesse de sentir.—J. J. ROUSSEAU.

'Twas in the summer time so sweet,
  When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That—who, of all the world, should meet,
  One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight,
  While Reason talked about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
  And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew,
  While Reason, like a Juno, stalked,
And from her portly figure threw
  A lengthened shadow, as she walked.

No wonder Love, as on they past,
  Should find that sunny morning chill,
For still the shadow Reason cast
 Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still.

In vain he tried his wings to warm.
  Or find a pathway not so dim
For still the maid's gigantic form
  Would stalk between the sun and him.

"This must not be," said little Love—
  "The sun was made for more than you."
So, turning through a myrtle grove,
  He bid the portly nymph adieu.

Now gayly roves the laughing boy
  O'er many a mead, by many a stream;
In every breeze inhaling joy,
  And drinking bliss in every beam.

From all the gardens, all the bowers,
  He culled the many sweets they shaded,
And ate the fruits and smelled the flowers,
  Till taste was gone and odor faded.

But now the sun, in pomp of noon,
  Looked blazing o'er the sultry plains;
Alas! the boy grew languid soon,
  And fever thrilled through all his veins.

The dew forsook his baby brow,
  No more with healthy bloom he smiled—
Oh! where was tranquil Reason now,
  To cast her shadow o'er the child?

Beneath a green and aged palm,
  His foot at length for shelter turning,
He saw the nymph reclining calm,
  With brow as cool as his was burning.

"Oh! take me to that bosom cold,"
  In murmurs at her feet he said;
And Reason oped her garment's fold,
  And flung it round his fevered head.

He felt her bosom's icy touch,
  And soon it lulled his pulse to rest;
For, ah! the chill was quite too much,
  And Love expired on Reason's breast!

* * * * *

Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear;
  While in these arms you lie.
This world hath not a wish, a fear,
That ought to cost that eye a tear.
  That heart, one single sigh.

The world!—ah, Fanny, Love must shun
  The paths where many rove;
One bosom to recline upon,
One heart to be his only—one,
  Are quite enough for Love.

What can we wish, that is not here
  Between your arms and mine?
Is there, on earth, a space so dear
As that within the happy sphere
  Two loving arms entwine?

For me, there's not a lock of jet
  Adown your temples curled,
Within whose glossy, tangling net,
My soul doth not, at once, forget
  All, all this worthless world.

'Tis in those eyes, so full of love,
  My only worlds I see;
Let but their orbs in sunshine move,
And earth below and skies above
  May frown or smile for me.

ASPASIA.

'Twas in the fair Aspasia's bower,
That Love and Learning, many an hour,
In dalliance met; and Learning smiled
With pleasure on the playful child,
Who often stole, to find a nest
Within the folds of Learning's vest.

  There, as the listening statesman hung
In transport on Aspasia's tongue,
The destinies of Athens took
Their color from Aspasia's look.
Oh happy time, when laws of state
When all that ruled the country's fate,
Its glory, quiet, or alarms,
Was planned between two snow-white arms!

  Blest times! they could not always last—
And yet, even now, they are not past,
Though we have lost the giant mould.
In which their men were cast of old,
Woman, dear woman, still the same,
While beauty breathes through soul or frame,
While man possesses heart or eyes,
Woman's bright empire never dies!

  No, Fanny, love, they ne'er shall say,
That beauty's charm hath past away;
Give but the universe a soul
Attuned to woman's soft control,
And Fanny hath the charm, the skill,
To wield a universe at will.

THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS.[1]

TO HER LOVER.

Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray,
That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away?
Scarce hadst thou left me, when a dream of night
Came o'er my spirit so distinct and bright,
That, while I yet can vividly recall
Its witching wonders, thou shall hear them all.
Methought I saw, upon the lunar beam,
Two winged boys, such as thy muse might dream,
Descending from above, at that still hour,
And gliding, with smooth step, into my bower.
Fair as the beauteous spirits that, all day.
In Amatha's warm founts imprisoned stay,
But rise at midnight, from the enchanted rill,
To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill.

  At once I knew their mission:—'twas to bear
My spirit upward, through the paths of air,
To that elysian realm, from whence stray beams
So oft, in sleep, had visited my dreams.
Swift at their touch dissolved the ties, that clung
All earthly round me, and aloft I sprung;
While, heavenward guides, the little genii flew
Thro' paths of light, refreshed by heaven's own dew,
And fanned by airs still fragrant with the breath
Of cloudless climes and worlds that know not death.

  Thou knowest, that, far beyond our nether sky,
And shown but dimly to man's erring eye,
A mighty ocean of blue ether rolls,[2]
Gemmed with bright islands, where the chosen souls,
Who've past in lore and love their earthly hours,
Repose for ever in unfading bowers.
That very moon, whose solitary light
So often guides thee to my bower at night,
Is no chill planet, but an isle of love,
Floating in splendor through those seas above,
And peopled with bright forms, aerial grown,
Nor knowing aught of earth but love alone.
Thither, I thought, we winged our airy way:—
Mild o'er its valleys streamed a silvery day,
While, all around, on lily beds of rest,
Reclined the spirits of the immortal Blest.
Oh! there I met those few congenial maids,
Whom love hath warmed, in philosophic shades;
There still Leontium,[3] on her sage's breast,
Found lore and love, was tutored and carest;
And there the clasp of Pythia's[4]gentle arms
Repaid the zeal which deified her charms.
The Attic Master,[5] in Aspasia's eyes,
Forgot the yoke of less endearing ties;
While fair Theano,[6] innocently fair,
Wreathed playfully her Samian's flowing hair,
Whose soul now fixt, its transmigrations past,
Found in those arms a resting-place, at last;
And smiling owned, whate'er his dreamy thought
In mystic numbers long had vainly sought,
The One that's formed of Two whom love hath bound,
Is the best number gods or men e'er found.

  But think, my Theon, with what joy I thrilled,
When near a fount, which through the valley rilled,
My fancy's eye beheld a form recline,
Of lunar race, but so resembling thine
That, oh! 'twas but fidelity in me,
To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee.
No aid of words the unbodied soul requires,
To waft a wish or embassy desires;
But by a power, to spirits only given,
A deep, mute impulse, only felt in heaven,
Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies,
From soul to soul the glanced idea flies.

  Oh, my beloved, how divinely sweet
Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet!
Like him, the river-god,[7]whose waters flow,
With love their only light, through caves below,
Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids,
And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
Have decked his current, as an offering meet
To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.

Think, when he meets at last his fountain-bride,
What perfect love must thrill the blended tide!
Each lost in each, till, mingling into one,
Their lot the same for shadow or for sun,
A type of true love, to the deep they run.
'Twas thus—
  But, Theon, 'tis an endless theme,
And thou growest weary of my half-told dream.

Oh would, my love, we were together now.
And I would woo sweet patience to thy brow,
And make thee smile at all the magic tales
Of starlight bowers and planetary vales,
Which my fond soul, inspired by thee and love,
In slumber's loom hath fancifully wove.
But no; no more—soon as tomorrow's ray
O'er soft Ilissus shall have died away,
I'll come, and, while love's planet in the west
Shines o'er our meeting, tell thee all the rest.

[1] It was imagined by some of the ancients that there is an ethereal ocean above us, and that the sun and moon are two floating, luminous islands, in which the spirits of the blest reside.

[2] This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or "waters above the firmament," was one of the many physical errors In which the early fathers bewildered themselves.

[3] The pupil and mistress of Epicurus, who called her his "dear little Leontium" as appears by a fragment of one of his letters in Laertius. This Leontium was a woman of talent; "she had the impudence (says Cicero) to write against Theophrastus;" and Cicero, at the same time, gives her a name which is neither polite nor translatable.

[4] Pythia was a woman whom Aristotle loved, and to whom after her death he paid divine honors, solemnizing her memory by the same sacrifices which the Athenians offered to the Goddess Ceres.

[5] Socrates, who used to console himself in the society of Aspasia for those "less endearing ties" which he found at home with Xantippe.

[6] There are some sensible letters extant under the name of this fair Pythagorean. They are addressed to her female friends upon the education of children, the treatment of servants, etc.

[7] The river Alpheus, which flowed by Pisa or Olympia, and into which it was customary to throw offerings of different kinds, during the celebration of the Olympic games. In the pretty romance of Clitophon and Leucippe, the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts to the fountain Arethusa.

TO CLOE.

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.

I could resign that eye of blue.
  How e'er its splendor used to thrill me;
And even that cheek of roseate hue,—
  To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me.

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,
  However much I've raved about it;
And sweetly as that lip can kiss,
  I think I could exist without it.

In short, so well I've learned to fast,
  That, sooth my love, I know not whether
I might not bring myself at last,
  To—do without you altogether.

THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN.

I bring thee, love, a golden chain,
  I bring thee too a flowery wreath;
The gold shall never wear a stain,
  The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe.
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

The Chain is formed of golden threads,
  Bright as Minerva's yellow hair,
When the last beam of evening sheds
  Its calm and sober lustre there.
The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove,
  With sunlit drops of bliss among it,
And many a rose-leaf, culled by Love,
  To heal his lip when bees have stung it.
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

Yes, yes, I read that ready eye,
  Which answers when the tongue is loath,
Thou likest the form of either tie,
  And spreadest thy playful hands for both.
Ah!—if there were not something wrong,
  The world would see them blended oft;
The Chain would make the Wreath so strong!
  The Wreath would make the Chain so soft!
Then might the gold, the flowerets be
Sweet fetters for my love and me.

But, Fanny, so unblest they twine,
  That (heaven alone can tell the reason)
When mingled thus they cease to shine,
  Or shine but for a transient season.
Whether the Chain may press too much,
  Or that the Wreath is slightly braided,
Let but the gold the flowerets touch,
  And all their bloom, their glow is faded!
Oh! better to be always free.
Than thus to bind my love to me.

* * * * *

The timid girl now hung her head,
  And, as she turned an upward glance,
I saw a doubt its twilight spread
  Across her brow's divine expanse
Just then, the garland's brightest rose
  Gave one of its love-breathing sighs—
Oh! who can ask how Fanny chose,
  That ever looked in Fanny's eyes!
"The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be
"The tie to bind my soul to thee."

TO …. ….

And hast thou marked the pensive shade,
  That many a time obscures my brow,
Midst all the joys, beloved maid.
  Which thou canst give, and only thou?

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget
  The bright looks that before me shine;
For never throbbed a bosom yet
  Could feel their witchery, like mine.

When bashful on my bosom hid,
  And blushing to have felt so blest,
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid
  Again to close it on my breast;—

Yes,—these are minutes all thine own,
  Thine own to give, and mine to feel;
Yet even in them, my heart has known
  The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.

For I have thought of former hours,
  When he who first thy soul possest,
Like me awaked its witching powers,
  Like me was loved, like me was blest.

Upon his name thy murmuring tongue
  Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt;
Upon his words thine ear hath hung,
  With transport all as purely felt.

For him—yet why the past recall,
  To damp and wither present bliss?
Thou'rt now my own, heart, spirit, all,
  And heaven could grant no more than this!

Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive;
  I would be first, be sole to thee,
Thou shouldst have but begun to live,
  The hour that gave thy heart to me.

Thy book of life till then effaced,
  Love should have kept that leaf alone
On which he first so brightly traced
  That thou wert, soul and all, my own.

TO …….'S PICTURE.

Go then, if she, whose shade thou art,
  No more will let thee soothe my pain;
Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart
  Some pangs, to give thee back again.

Tell her, the smile was not so dear,
  With which she made the semblance mine,
As bitter is the burning tear,
  With which I now the gift resign.

Yet go—and could she still restore,
  As some exchange for taking thee.
The tranquil look which first I wore,
  When her eyes found me calm and free;

Could she give back the careless flow,
  The spirit that my heart then knew—
Yet, no, 'tis vain—go, picture, go—
  Smile at me once, and then—adieu!

FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.[1]

    Blest infant of eternity!
  Before the day-star learned to move,
In pomp of fire, along his grand career,
  Glancing the beamy shafts of light

From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere,
    Thou wert alone, oh Love!
  Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night,
  Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee.
No form of beauty soothed thine eye,
  As through the dim expanse it wandered wide;
No kindred spirit caught thy sigh,
  As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.

Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power,
  That latent in his heart was sleeping,—
Oh Sympathy! that lonely hour
  Saw Love himself thy absence weeping.

But look, what glory through the darkness beams!
Celestial airs along the water glide:—
What Spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide
  So beautiful? oh, not of earth,
  But, in that glowing hour, the birth
Of the young Godhead's own creative dreams.
      'Tis she!
Psyche, the firstborn spirit of the air.
    To thee, oh Love, she turns,

    On thee her eyebeam burns:
  Blest hour, before all worlds ordained to be!
      They meet—
  The blooming god—the spirit fair
    Meet in communion sweet.
  Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine;
  All Nature feels the thrill divine,
  The veil of Chaos is withdrawn,
And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn!

[1] Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and passive principles of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its first harmonizing impulse from the nuptial sympathy between these two powers. A marriage is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timaeus held Form to be the father, and Matter the mother of the World.

TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES.

Donington Park, 1802

To catch the thought, by painting's spell,
  Howe'er remote, howe'er refined,
And o'er the kindling canvas tell
  The silent story of the mind;

O'er nature's form to glance the eye,
  And fix, by mimic light and shade,
Her morning tinges ere they fly,
  Her evening blushes, ere they fade;

Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers,
  The gift, by which her art divine
Above all others proudly towers,—
  And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.

And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,
  In almost living truth exprest,
This bright memorial of a face
  On which her eye delights to rest;

While o'er the lovely look serene,
  The smile of peace, the bloom of youth,
The cheek, that blushes to be seen.
  The eye that tells the bosom's truth;

While o'er each line, so brightly true,
  Our eyes with lingering pleasure rove,
Blessing the touch whose various hue
  Thus brings to mind the form we love;

We feel the magic of thy art,
  And own it with a zest, a zeal,
A pleasure, nearer to the heart
  Than critic taste can ever feel.

THE FALL OF HEBE.

A DITHYRAMBIC ODE.

      'Twas on a day
When the immortals at their banquet lay;
      The bowl
  Sparkled with starry dew,
The weeping of those myriad urns of light,
  Within whose orbs, the Almighty Power,
  At nature's dawning hour,
Stored the rich fluid of ethereal soul.
      Around,
Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight
      From eastern isles
(Where they have bathed them in the orient ray,
And with rich fragrance all their bosoms filled).
In circles flew, and, melting as they flew,
A liquid daybreak o'er the board distilled.

      All, all was luxury!
  All must be luxury, where Lyaeus smiles.
    His locks divine
      Were crowned
    With a bright meteor-braid,
Which, like an ever-springing wreath of vine,
  Shot into brilliant leafy shapes,
And o'er his brow in lambent tendrils played:
    While mid the foliage hung,
      Like lucid grapes,
A thousand clustering buds of light,
Culled from the garden of the galaxy.

Upon his bosom Cytherea's head
Lay lovely, as when first the Syrens sung
      Her beauty's dawn,
And all the curtains of the deep, undrawn,
Revealed her sleeping in its azure bed.
      The captive deity
    Hung lingering on her eyes and lip,
      With looks of ecstasy.
      Now, on his arm,
    In blushes she reposed,
  And, while he gazed on each bright charm,
To shade his burning eyes her hand in dalliance stole.

And now she raised her rosy mouth to sip
    The nectared wave
    Lyaeus gave,
And from her eyelids, half-way closed,
  Sent forth a melting gleam,
  Which fell like sun-dew in the bowl:
While her bright hair, in mazy flow
  Of gold descending
Adown her cheek's luxurious glow,
  Hung o'er the goblet's side,
And was reflected in its crystal tide,
  Like a bright crocus flower,
 Whose sunny leaves, at evening hour
  With roses of Cyrene blending,[1]
Hang o'er the mirror of some silvery stream.

      The Olympian cup
      Shone in the hands
  Of dimpled Hebe, as she winged her feet
        Up
      The empyreal mount,
To drain the soul-drops at their stellar fount;[2]
        And still
      As the resplendent rill
  Gushed forth into the cup with mantling heat,
    Her watchful care
  Was still to cool its liquid fire
With snow-white sprinklings of that feathery air
The children of the Pole respire,
  In those enchanted lands.[3]
Where life is all a spring, and
  north winds never blow.

      But oh!
    Bright Hebe, what a tear,
    And what a blush were thine,
  When, as the breath of every Grace
Wafted thy feet along the studded sphere,
  With a bright cup for Jove himself to drink,
  Some star, that shone beneath thy tread,
    Raising its amorous head
  To kiss those matchless feet,
    Checked thy career too fleet,
    And all heaven's host of eyes
  Entranced, but fearful all,
Saw thee, sweet Hebe, prostrate fall
  Upon the bright floor of the azure skies;
    Where, mid its stars, thy beauty lay,
    As blossom, shaken from the spray
      Of a spring thorn,
Lies mid the liquid sparkles of the morn.
Or, as in temples of the Paphian shade,
The worshippers of Beauty's queen behold
An image of their rosy idol, laid
  Upon a diamond shrine.

    The wanton wind,
  Which had pursued the flying fair,
  And sported mid the tresses unconfined
    Of her bright hair,
Now, as she fell,—oh wanton breeze!
Ruffled the robe, whose graceful flow
Hung o'er those limbs of unsunned snow,
  Purely as the Eleusinian veil
    Hangs o'er the Mysteries!

  The brow of Juno flushed—
  Love blest the breeze!
  The Muses blushed;
And every cheek was hid behind a lyre,
While every eye looked laughing through the strings.
But the bright cup? the nectared draught
Which Jove himself was to have quaffed?
  Alas, alas, upturned it lay
  By the fallen Hebe's side;
While, in slow lingering drops, the ethereal tide,
As conscious of its own rich essence, ebbed away.

Who was the Spirit that remembered Man,
      In that blest hour,
    And, with a wing of love,
  Brushed off the goblet's scattered tears,
As, trembling near the edge of heaven they ran,
And sent them floating to our orb below?
  Essence of immortality!
    The shower
  Fell glowing through the spheres;
While all around new tints of bliss,
    New odors and new light,
    Enriched its radiant flow.
      Now, with a liquid kiss,
  It stole along the thrilling wire
    Of Heaven's luminous Lyre,
  Stealing the soul of music in its flight:
  And now, amid the breezes bland,
That whisper from the planets as they roll,
  The bright libation, softly fanned
  By all their sighs, meandering stole.
    They who, from Atlas' height,
      Beheld this rosy flame
  Descending through the waste of night,
Thought 'twas some planet, whose empyreal frame
  Had kindled, as it rapidly revolved
Around its fervid axle, and dissolved
    Into a flood so bright!

      The youthful Day,
    Within his twilight bower,
    Lay sweetly sleeping
On the flushed bosom of a lotos-flower;[4]
  When round him, in profusion weeping,
    Dropt the celestial shower,
        Steeping
    The rosy clouds, that curled
      About his infant head,
Like myrrh upon the locks of Cupid shed.
    But, when the waking boy
Waved his exhaling tresses through the sky,
        O morn of joy!
        The tide divine,
  All glorious with the vermil dye
  It drank beneath his orient eye,
  Distilled, in dews, upon the world,
And every drop was wine, was heavenly WINE!
  Blest be the sod, and blest the flower
  On which descended first that shower,
All fresh from Jove's nectareous springs;—
  Oh far less sweet the flower, the sod,
  O'er which the Spirit of the Rainbow flings
  The magic mantle of her solar God![5]

[1] We learn from Theopbrastus, that the roses of Cyrene were particularly fragrant.

[2] Heraclitus (Physicus) held the soul to be a spark of the stellar essence.

[3] The country of the Hyperboreans. These people were supposed to be placed so far north that the north wind could not affect them; they lived longer than any other mortals; passed their whole time in music and dancing, etc.

[4] The Egyptians represented the dawn of day by a young boy seated upon a lotos. Observing that the lotos showed its head above water at sunrise, and sank again at his setting, they conceived the idea of consecrating this flower to Osiris, or the sun.

[5] The ancients esteemed those flowers and trees the sweetest upon which the rainbow had appeared to rest; and the wood they chiefly burned in sacrifices, was that which the smile of Iris had consecrated.

RINGS AND SEALS.

"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid,
"The charm is broken!—once betrayed,
"Never can this wronged heart rely
"On word or look, on oath or sigh.
"Take back the gifts, so fondly given,
"With promised faith and vows to heaven;
"That little ring which, night and morn,
"With wedded truth my hand hath worn;
"That seal which oft, in moments blest,
"Thou hast upon my lip imprest,
"And sworn its sacred spring should be
"A fountain sealed[1] for only thee:
"Take, take them back, the gift and vow,
"All sullied, lost and hateful now!"

  I took the ring—the seal I took,
While, oh, her every tear and look
Were such as angels look and shed,
When man is by the world misled.
Gently I whispered, "Fanny, dear!
"Not half thy lover's gifts are here:
"Say, where are all the kisses given,
"From morn to noon, from noon to even,—
"Those signets of true love, worth more
"Than Solomon's own seal of yore,—
"Where are those gifts, so sweet, so many?
"Come, dearest,—give back all, if any."
  While thus I whispered, trembling too,
Lest all the nymph had sworn was true,
I saw a smile relenting rise
Mid the moist azure of her eyes,
Like daylight o'er a sea of blue,
While yet in mid-air hangs the dew
She let her cheek repose on mine,
She let my arms around her twine;
One kiss was half allowed, and then—
The ring and seal were hers again.

[1] "There are gardens, supposed to be those of King Solomon, in the neighborhood of Bethlehem. The friars show a fountain, which, they say, is the sealed fountain, to which the holy spouse in the Canticles is compared; and they pretend a tradition, that Solomon shut up these springs and put his signet upon the door, to keep them for his own drinking."—Maundrell's Travels.

TO MISS SUSAN BECKFORD.[1]

ON HER SINGING.

I more than once have heard at night
  A song like those thy lip hath given,
And it was sung by shapes of light,
  Who looked and breathed, like thee, of heaven.

But this was all a dream of sleep.
  And I have said when morning shone:—
"Why should the night-witch, Fancy, keep
  "These wonders for herself alone?"

I knew not then that fate had lent
  Such tones to one of mortal birth;
I knew not then that Heaven had sent
  A voice, a form like thine on earth.

And yet, in all that flowery maze
  Through which my path of life has led,
When I have heard the sweetest lays
  From lips of rosiest lustre shed;

When I have felt the warbled word
  From Beauty's lip, in sweetness vying
With music's own melodious bird;
  When on the rose's bosom lying

Though form and song at once combined
  Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill,
My heart hath sighed, my ear hath pined
  For something lovelier, softer still:—

Oh, I have found it all, at last,
  In thee, thou sweetest living lyre,
Through which the soul of song e'er past,
  Or feeling breathed its sacred fire.

All that I e'er, in wildest flight
  Of fancy's dreams could hear or see
Of music's sigh or beauty's light
  Is realized, at once, in thee!

[1] Afterward Duchess of Hamilton.

IMPROMPTU,

ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS.

    o dulces comitum valete coetus!
    CATULLUS.

No, never shall my soul forget
  The friends I found so cordial-hearted;
Dear shall be the day we met,
  And dear shall be the night we parted.

If fond regrets, however sweet,
  Must with the lapse of time decay,
Yet stall, when thus in mirth you meet,
  Fill high to him that's far away!

Long be the light of memory found
  Alive within your social glass;
Let that be still the magic round.
  O'er which Oblivion, dare not pass.

A WARNING.

TO …….

Oh, fair as heaven and chaste as light!
Did nature mould thee all so bright.
That thou shouldst e'er be brought to weep
O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep,
O'er shame extinguished, honor fled,
Peace lost, heart withered, feeling dead?

No, no! a star was born with thee,
Which sheds eternal purity.
Thou hast, within those sainted eyes,
So fair a transcript of the skies,
In lines of light such heavenly lore
That men should read them and adore.
Yet have I known a gentle maid
Whose mind and form were both arrayed
In nature's purest light, like thine;—
Who wore that clear, celestial sign
Which seems to mark the brow that's fair
For destiny's peculiar care;
Whose bosom, too, like Dian's own,
Was guarded by a sacred zone,
Where the bright gem of virtue shone;
Whose eyes had in their light a charm
Against all wrong and guile and harm.
Yet, hapless maid, in one sad hour
These spells have lost their guardian power;
The gem has been beguiled away;
Her eyes have lost their chastening ray;
The modest pride, the guiltless shame,
The smiles that from reflection came,
All, all have fled and left her mind
A faded monument behind;
The ruins of a once pure shrine,
No longer fit for guest divine,
Oh! 'twas a sight I wept to see—
Heaven keep the lost one's fate from thee!

TO …….

'Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now,
  While yet my soul is something free;
While yet those dangerous eyes allow
  One minute's thought to stray from thee.

Oh! thou becom'st each moment dearer;
  Every chance that brings me nigh thee
Brings my ruin nearer, nearer,—
  I am lost, unless I fly thee.

Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me,
  Doom me not thus so soon to fall
Duties, fame, and hopes await me,—
  But that eye would blast them all!

For, thou hast heart as false and cold
  As ever yet allured and swayed,
And couldst, without a sigh, behold
  The ruin which thyself had made.

Yet,—could I think that, truly fond,
  That eye but once would smile on me,
Even as thou art, how far beyond
  Fame, duty, wealth, that smile would be!

Oh! but to win it, night and day,
  Inglorious at thy feet reclined,
I'd sigh my dreams of fame away,
  The world for thee forgot, resigned.

But no, 'tis o'er, and—thus we part,
  Never to meet again—no, never,
False woman, what a mind and heart
 Thy treachery has undone forever.

WOMAN.

Away, away—you're all the same,
  A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
  To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
  From folly kind, from cunning loath,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
  Yet feigning all that's best in both;

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,—
  More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
  Than one true, manly lover blest.

Away, away—your smile's a curse—
  Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse,
  If e'er I love such things again.

TO …….

Come, take thy harp—'tis vain to muse
  Upon the gathering ills we see;
Oh! take thy harp and let me lose
  All thoughts of ill in hearing thee.

Sing to me, love!—Though death were near,
  Thy song could make my soul forget—
Nay, nay, in pity, dry that tear,
  All may be well, be happy yet.

Let me but see that snowy arm
  Once more upon the dear harp lie,
And I will cease to dream of harm,
  Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh.

Give me that strain of mournful touch
  We used to love long, long ago,
Before our hearts had known as much
  As now, alas! they bleed to know.

Sweet notes! they tell of former peace,
  Of all that looked so smiling then,
Now vanished, lost—oh, pray thee cease,
  I cannot bear those sounds again.

Art thou, too, wretched? Yes, thou art;
  I see thy tears flow fast with mine—
Come, come to this devoted heart,
  'Tis breaking, but it still is thine!

A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY.

'Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met
The venerable man;[1] a healthy bloom
Mingled its softness with the vigorous thought
That towered upon his brow; and when he spoke
'Twas language sweetened into song—such holy sounds
As oft, they say, the wise and virtuous hear,
Prelusive to the harmony of heaven,
When death is nigh; and still, as he unclosed[2]
His sacred lips, an odor, all as bland
As ocean-breezes gather from the flowers
That blossom in Elysium, breathed around,
With silent awe we listened, while he told
Of the dark veil which many an age had hung
O'er Nature's form, till, long explored by man,
The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous,
And glimpses of that heavenly form shone through:—
Of magic wonders, that were known and taught
By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named)
Who mused amid the mighty cataclysm,
O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore;
And gathering round him, in the sacred ark,
The mighty secrets of that former globe,
Let not the living star of science sink
Beneath the waters, which ingulfed a world!—
Of visions, by Calliope revealed
To him,[3]who traced upon his typic lyre
The diapason of man's mingled frame,
And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven.
With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane,
Which the grave sons of Mochus, many a night,
Told to the young and bright-haired visitant
Of Carmel's sacred mount.—Then, in a flow
Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on
Through many a Maze of Garden and of Porch,
Through many a system, where the scattered light
Of heavenly truth lay, like a broken beam
From the pure sun, which, though refracted all
Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still,[4]
And bright through every change!—he spoke of Him,
The lone, eternal One, who dwells above,
And of the soul's untraceable descent
From that high fount of spirit, through the grades
Of intellectual being, till it mix
With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark;
Nor yet even then, though sunk in earthly dross,
Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch
Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still.
As some bright river, which has rolled along
Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold,
When poured at length into the dusky deep,
Disdains to take at once its briny taint,
Or balmy freshness, of the scenes it left.
But keeps unchanged awhile the lustrous tinge,
And here the old man ceased—a winged train
Of nymphs and genii bore him from our eyes.
The fair illusion fled! and, as I waked,
'Twas clear that my rapt soul had roamed, the while,
To that bright realm of dreams, that spirit-world,
Which mortals know by its long track of light
O'er midnight's sky, and call the Galaxy.[5]

[1] In Plutarch's Essay on the Decline of the Oracles, Cleombrotus, one of the interlocutors, describes an extraordinary man whom he had met with, after long research, upon the banks of the Red Sea. Once in every year this supernatural personage appeared to mortals and conversed with them; the rest of his time he passed among the Genii and the Nymphs.

[2] The celebrated Janus Dousa, a little before his death, imagined that he heard a strain of music in the air.

[3] Orpheus.—Paulinus, in his "Hebdomades, cap. 2, lib. iii, has endeavored to show, after the Platonists, that man is a diapason, or octave, made up of a diatesseron, which is his soul, and a dispente, which is his body. Those frequent allusions to music, by which the ancient philosophers illustrated their sublime theories, must have tended very much to elevate the character of the art, and to enrich it with associations of the grandest and most interesting nature.

[4] Lactantius asserts that all the truths of Christianity may be found dispersed through the ancient philosophical sects, and that any one who would collect these scattered fragments of orthodoxy might form a code in no respect differing from that of the Christian.

[5] According to Pythagoras, the people of Dreams are souls collected together in the Galaxy.

TO MRS. …….

To see thee every day that came,
And find thee still each day the same;
In pleasure's smile or sorrow's tear
To me still ever kind and dear;—
To meet thee early, leave thee late,
Has been so long my bliss, my fate,
That life, without this cheering ray,
Which came, like sunshine, every day,
And all my pain, my sorrow chased,
Is now a lone, a loveless waste.

Where are the chords she used to touch?
The airs, the songs she loved so much?
Those songs are hushed, those chords are still,
And so, perhaps, will every thrill
Of feeling soon be lulled to rest,
Which late I waked in Anna's breast.
Yet, no—the simple notes I played
From memory's tablet soon may fade;
The songs, which Anna loved to hear,
May vanish from her heart and ear;
But friendship's voice shall ever find
An echo in that gentle mind,
Nor memory lose nor time impair
The sympathies that tremble there.

TO LADY HEATHCOTE,

ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS.

"Tunnebridge est à la même distance de Londres, que Fontainebleau l'est de Paris. Ce qu'il y a de beau et de galant dans l'un et dans l'autre sexe s'y rassemble au terns des eaux. La compagnie," etc. —See Memoires de Grammont, Second Part, chap. iii.

Tunbridge Wells.

When Grammont graced these happy springs,
  And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles,
The merriest wight of all the kings
  That ever ruled these gay, gallant isles;

Like us, by day, they rode, they walked,
  At eve they did as we may do,
And Grammont just like Spencer talked,
  And lovely Stewart smiled like you.

The only different trait is this,
  That woman then, if man beset her,
Was rather given to saying "yes,"
  Because,—as yet, she knew no better.

Each night they held a coterie,
  Where, every fear to slumber charmed,
Lovers were all they ought to be,
  And husbands not the least alarmed.

Then called they up their school-day pranks,
  Nor thought it much their sense beneath
To play at riddles, quips, and cranks,
  And lords showed wit, and ladies teeth.

As—"Why are husbands like the mint?"
  Because, forsooth, a husband's duty
Is but to set the name and print
  That give a currency to beauty.

"Why is a rose in nettles hid
  Like a young widow, fresh and fair?"
Because 'tis sighing to be rid
  Of weeds, that "have no business there!"

And thus they missed and thus they hit,
  And now they struck and now they parried;
And some lay in of full grown wit.
  While others of a pun miscarried,

'Twas one of those facetious nights
  That Grammont gave this forfeit ring
For breaking grave conundrumrites,
  Or punning ill, or—some such thing;—

From whence it can be fairly traced,
  Through many a branch and many a bough,
From twig to twig, until it graced
  The snowy hand that wears it now.

All this I'll prove, and then, to you
  Oh Tunbridge! and your springs ironical,
I swear by Heathcote's eye of blue
  To dedicate the important chronicle.

Long may your ancient inmates give
  Their mantles to your modern lodgers,
And Charles's loves in Heathcote live,
  And Charles's bards revive in Rogers.

Let no pedantic fools be there;
  For ever be those fops abolished,
With heads as wooden as thy ware,
  And, heaven knows! not half so polished.

But still receive the young, the gay.
  The few who know the rare delight
Of reading Grammont every day,
  And acting Grammont every night.

THE DEVIL AMONG THE SCHOLARS,

A FRAGMENT.

* * * * *

But, whither have these gentle ones,
These rosy nymphs and black-eyed nuns,
With all of Cupid's wild romancing,
Led by truant brains a-dancing?
Instead of studying tomes scholastic,
Ecclesiastic, or monastic,
Off I fly, careering far
In chase of Pollys, prettier far
Than any of their namesakes are,—
The Polymaths and Polyhistors,
Polyglots and all their sisters.

So have I known a hopeful youth
Sit down in quest of lore and truth,
With tomes sufficient to confound him,
Like Tohu Bohu, heapt around him,—
Mamurra[1] stuck to Theophrastus,
And Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus.[2]
When lo! while all that's learned and wise
Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes,
And through the window of his study
Beholds some damsel fair and ruddy,
With eyes, as brightly turned upon him as
The angel's[3] were on Hieronymus.
Quick fly the folios, widely scattered,
Old Homer's laureled brow is battered,
And Sappho, headlong sent, flies just in
The reverend eye of St. Augustin.
Raptured he quits each dozing sage,
Oh woman, for thy lovelier page:
Sweet book!—unlike the books of art,—
Whose errors are thy fairest part;
In whom the dear errata column
Is the best page in all the volume![4]
But to begin my subject rhyme—
'Twas just about this devilish time,
When scarce there happened any frolics
That were not done by Diabolics,
A cold and loveless son of Lucifer,
Who woman scorned, nor saw the use of her,
A branch of Dagon's family,
(Which Dagon, whether He or She,
Is a dispute that vastly better is
Referred to Scaliger[5] et coeteris,)
Finding that, in this cage of fools,
The wisest sots adorn the schools,
Took it at once his head Satanic in,
To grow a great scholastic manikin,—
A doctor, quite as learned and fine as
Scotus John or Tom Aquinas,
Lully, Hales Irrefragabilis,
Or any doctor of the rabble is.
In languages, the Polyglots,
Compared to him, were Babelsots:
He chattered more than ever Jew did;—
Sanhedrim and Priest included,
Priest and holy Sanhedrim
Were one-and-seventy fools to him.
But chief the learned demon felt a
Zeal so strong for gamma, delta,
That, all for Greek and learning's glory,[6]
He nightly tippled "Graeco more,"
And never paid a bill or balance
Except upon the Grecian Kalends:—
From whence your scholars, when they want tick,
Say, to be Attic's to be on tick.
In logics, he was quite Ho Panu;
Knew as much as ever man knew.
He fought the combat syllogistic
With so much skill and art eristic,
That though you were the learned Stagyrite,
At once upon the hip he had you right.
In music, though he had no ears
Except for that amongst the spheres,
(Which most of all, as he averred it,
He dearly loved, 'cause no one heard it,)
Yet aptly he, at sight, could read
Each tuneful diagram in Bede,
And find, by Euclid's corollaria,
The ratios of a jig or aria.
But, as for all your warbling Delias,
Orpheuses and Saint Cecilias,
He owned he thought them much surpast
By that redoubted Hyaloclast[7]
Who still contrived by dint of throttle,
Where'er he went to crack a bottle.