Chapter XI: Preface: 1 (2)

Last night, when we came from the Calabash-Tree, When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free, The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day Set the magical springs of my fancy in play, And oh,--such a vision as haunted me then I would slumber for ages to witness again. The many I like, and the few I adore, The friends who were dear and beloved before. But never till now so beloved and dear, At the call of my Fancy, surrounded me here; And soon,--oh, at once, did the light of their smiles To a paradise brighten this region of isles; More lucid the wave, as they looked on it, flowed, And brighter the rose, as they gathered it, glowed. Not the valleys Heraean (though watered by rills Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills.[2] Where the Song of the Shepherd, primeval and wild, Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,) Could boast such a lustre o'er land and o'er wave As the magic of love to this paradise gave.

Oh magic of love! unembellished by you, Hath the garden a blush or the landscape a hue? Or shines there a vista in nature or art, Like that which Love opes thro' the eye to the heart?

Alas, that a vision so happy should fade! That, when morning around me in brilliancy played, The rose and the stream I had thought of at night Should still be before me, unfadingly bright; While the friends, who had seemed to hang over the stream, And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream.

But look, where, all ready, in sailing array, The bark that's to carry these pages away,[3] Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind, And will soon leave these islets of Ariel behind. What billows, what gales is she fated to prove, Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love! Yet pleasant the swell of the billows would be, And the roar of those gales would be music to me. Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew, Not the sunniest tears of the summer-eve dew, Were as sweet as the storm, or as bright as the foam Of the surge, that would hurry your wanderer home.

[1] Pinkerton has said that "a good history and description of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the geographical library;" but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is but little which the historian could amplify into importance; and, with respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to cultivate are so common in the West Indies, that they have been described by every naturalist who has written any account of those islands.

[2] Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first Inventor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.

[3] A ship, ready to sail for England.

THE STEERMAN'S SONG,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE

28TH APRIL.[1]

When freshly blows the northern gale,
And under courses snug we fly;
Or when light breezes swell the sail,
And royals proudly sweep the sky;
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still
I stand, and, as my watchful eye
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,
I think of her I love, and cry,
Port, my boy! port.

When calms delay, or breezes blow
Right from the point we wish to steer;
When by the wind close-hauled we go.
And strive in vain the port to near;
I think 'tis thus the fates defer
My bliss with one that's far away,
And while remembrance springs to her,
I watch the sails and sighing say,
Thus, my boy! thus.

But see the wind draws kindly aft,
All hands are up the yards to square,
And now the floating stu'n-sails waft
Our stately ship thro' waves and air.
Oh! then I think that yet for me
Some breeze of fortune thus may spring,
Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee--
And in that hope I smiling sing,
Steady, boy! so.

[1] I left Bermuda in the Boston about the middle of April, in company with the Cambrian and Leander, aboard the latter of which was the Admiral Sir Andrew Mitchell, who divides his year between Halifax and Bermuda, and is the very soul of society and good-fellowship to both. We separated in a few days, and the Boston after a short cruise proceeded to New York.

TO THE FIRE-FLY.[1]

At morning, when the earth and sky
Are glowing with the light of spring,
We see thee not, thou humble fly!
Nor think upon thy gleaming wing.

But when the skies have lost their hue,
And sunny lights no longer play,
Oh then we see and bless thee too
For sparkling o'er the dreary way.

Thus let me hope, when lost to me
The lights that now my life illume,
Some milder joys may come, like thee,
To cheer, if not to warm, the gloom!

[1] The lively and varying illumination, with which these fire-flies light up the woods at night, gives quite an idea of enchantment.

TO THE LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.

FROM THE CITY OP WASHINGTON.

If former times had never left a trace Of human frailty in their onward race, Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran, One dark memorial of the crimes of man; If every age, in new unconscious prime, Rose, like a phenix, from the fires of time, To wing its way unguided and alone, The future smiling and the past unknown; Then ardent man would to himself be new, Earth at his foot and heaven within his view: Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme Of full perfection prompt his daring dream, Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore, Could tell him, fools had dreamt as much before. But, tracing as we do, through age and clime, The plans of virtue midst the deeds of crime, The thinking follies and the reasoning rage Of man, at once the idiot and the sage; When still we see, through every varying frame Of arts and polity, his course the same, And know that ancient fools but died, to make A space on earth for modern fools to take; 'Tis strange, how quickly we the past forget; That Wisdom's self should not be tutored yet, Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth Of pure perfection midst the sons of earth!

Oh! nothing but that soul which God has given, Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven; O'er dross without to shed the light within, And dream of virtue while we see but sin.

Even here, beside the proud Potowmac's stream, Might sages still pursue the flattering theme Of days to come, when man shall conquer fate, Rise o'er the level of his mortal state, Belie the monuments of frailty past, And plant perfection in this world at last! "Here," might they say, "shall power's divided reign "Evince that patriots have not bled in vain. "Here godlike liberty's herculean youth, "Cradled in peace, and nurtured up by truth "To full maturity of nerve and mind, "Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind. "Here shall religion's pure and balmy draught "In form no more from cups of state be quaft, "But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect, "Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect. "Around the columns of the public shrine "Shall growing arts their gradual wreath intwine, "Nor breathe corruption from the flowering braid, "Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade, "No longer here shall Justice bound her view, "Or wrong the many, while she rights the few; "But take her range through all the social frame, "Pure and pervading as that vital flame "Which warms at once our best and meanest part, "And thrills a hair while it expands a heart!"

Oh golden dream! what soul that loves to scan The bright disk rather than the dark of man, That owns the good, while smarting with the ill, And loves the world with all its frailty still,-- What ardent bosom does not spring to meet The generous hope, with all that heavenly heat, Which makes the soul unwilling to resign The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine! Yes, dearest friend, I see thee glow to think The chain of ages yet may boast a link Of purer texture than the world has known, And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne.

But, is it thus? doth even the glorious dream Borrow from truth that dim, uncertain gleam, Which tempts us still to give such fancies scope, As shock not reason, while they nourish hope? No, no, believe me, 'tis not so--even now, While yet upon Columbia's rising brow The showy smile of young presumption plays, Her bloom is poisoned and her heart decays. Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath Burns with the taint of empires near their death; And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime, She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime,[1]

Already has the child of Gallia's school The foul Philosophy that sins by rule, With all her train of reasoning, damning arts, Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts, Like things that quicken after Nilus' flood, The venomed birth of sunshine and of mud,-- Already has she poured her poison here O'er every charm that makes existence dear; Already blighted, with her blackening trace, The opening bloom of every social grace, And all those courtesies, that love to shoot Round virtue's stem, the flowerets of her fruit.

And, were these errors but the wanton tide Of young luxuriance or unchastened pride; The fervid follies and the faults of such As wrongly feel, because they feel too much; Then might experience make the fever less, Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess. But no; 'tis heartless, speculative ill, All youth's transgression with all age's chill; The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice, A slow and cold stagnation into vice.

Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man's sinking age, Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, And dies, collecting lumber in the rear,-- Long has it palsied every grasping hand And greedy spirit through this bartering land; Turned life to traffic, set the demon gold So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold, And conscience, truth, and honesty are made To rise and fall, like other wares of trade.

Already in this free, this virtuous state, Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordained by fate, To show the world, what high perfection springs From rabble senators, and merchant kings,-- Even here already patriots learn to steal Their private perquisites from public weal, And, guardians of the country's sacred fire, Like Afric's priests, let out the flame for hire. Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose From England's debtors to be England's foes, Who could their monarch in their purse forget, And break allegiance, but to cancel debt, Have proved at length, the mineral's tempting hue, Which makes a patriot, can un-make him too.[2] Oh! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant! Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant Of purpled madmen, were they numbered all From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, As the rank jargon of that factious race, Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words, Formed to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords, Strut forth, as patriots, from their negro-marts, And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts. Who can, with patience, for a moment see The medley mass of pride and misery, Of whips and charters, manacles and rights, Of slaving blacks and democratic whites, And all the piebald polity that reigns In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains? To think that man, thou just and gentle God! Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee, Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty; Away, away--I'd rather hold my neck By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck, In climes, where liberty has scarce been named, Nor any right but that of ruling claimed, Than thus to live, where bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves; Where--motley laws admitting no degree Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free-- Alike the bondage and the license suit The brute made ruler and the man made brute.

But, while I thus, my friend, in flowerless song, So feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong, The ills, the vices of the land, where first Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst, Where treason's arm by royalty was nerved, And Frenchmen learned to crush the throne they served-- Thou, calmly lulled in dreams of classic thought, By bards illumined and by sages taught, Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene, That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been. Why should I wake thee? why severely chase The lovely forms of virtue and of grace, That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread By Spartan matrons round the genial bed, Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart.

Forgive me, Forbes--and should the song destroy One generous hope, one throb of social joy, One high pulsation of the zeal for man, Which few can feel, and bless that few who can,-- Oh! turn to him, beneath those kindred eyes Thy talents open and thy virtues rise, Forget where nature has been dark or dim, And proudly study all her lights in him. Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget, And feel that man _may_ reach perfection yet.

[1] "What will be the old age of this government, if it is thus early decrepit!" Such was the remark of Fauchet, the French minister at Philadelphia, in that famous despatch to his government, which was intercepted by one of our cruisers in the year 1794. This curious memorial may be found in Porcupine's Works, vol. i. p. 279. It remains a striking monument of republican intrigue on one side and republican profligacy on the other; and I would recommend the perusal of it to every honest politician, who may labor under a moment's delusion with respect to the purity of American patriotism.

[2] See Porcupine's account of the Pennsylvania Insurrection in 1794. In short, see Porcupine's works throughout, for ample corroboration of every sentiment which I have ventured to express. In saying this, I refer less to the comments of that writer than to the occurrences which he has related and the documents which he has preserved. Opinion may be suspected of bias, but facts speak for themselves.

TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ., M. D.

FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON.

'Tis evening now; beneath the western star Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar, And fills the ears of some consenting she With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy.

The patriot, fresh from Freedom's councils come, Now pleased retires to lash his slaves at home; Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia's charms, And dream of freedom in his bondsmaid's arms.

In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom, Come, let me lead thee o'er this "second Rome!"[1] Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now:[2]-- This embryo capital, where Fancy sees Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees; Which second-sighted seers, even now, adorn With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn, Though naught but woods[3] and Jefferson they see, Where streets should run and sages _ought_ to be.

And look, how calmly in yon radiant wave, The dying sun prepares his golden grave. Oh mighty river! oh ye banks of shade! Ye matchless scenes, in nature's morning made, While still, in all the exuberance of prime, She poured her wonders, lavishly sublime, Nor yet had learned to stoop, with humbler care, From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair;-- Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods, Your rich savannas and majestic woods, Where bards should meditate and heroes rove, And woman charm, and man deserve her love,-- Oh say, was world so bright, but born to grace Its own half-organized, half-minded race[4] Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast, Like vermin gendered on the lion's crest? Were none but brutes to call that soil their home, Where none but demigods should dare to roam? Or worse, thou wondrous world! oh! doubly worse, Did heaven design thy lordly land to nurse The motley dregs of every distant clime, Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere, In full malignity to rankle here?

But hold,--observe yon little mount of pines, Where the breeze murmurs and the firefly shines. There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, The sculptured image of that veteran chief[5] Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name, And climb'd o'er prostrate royalty to fame; Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train Cast off their monarch that their mob might reign.

How shall we rank thee upon glory's page? Thou more than soldier and just less than sage! Of peace too fond to act the conqueror's part, Too long in camps to learn a statesman's art, Nature designed thee for a hero's mould, But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold.

While loftier souls command, nay, make their fate, Thy fate made thee and forced thee to be great. Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds Her brightest halo round the weakest heads, Found _thee_ undazzled, tranquil as before, Proud to be useful, scorning to be more; Less moved by glory's than by duty's claim, Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim; All that thou _wert_ reflects less fame on thee, Far less, than all thou didst _forbear to be_. Nor yet the patriot of one land alone,-- For, thine's a name all nations claim their own; And every shore, where breathed the good and brave, Echoed the plaudits thy own country gave.

Now look, my friend, where faint the moonlight falls On yonder dome, and, in those princely halls,-- If thou canst hate, as sure that soul must hate, Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great, If thou canst loathe and execrate with me The poisoning drug of French philosophy, That nauseous slaver of these frantic times, With which false liberty dilutes her crimes, If thou has got, within thy free-born breast, One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest, With honest scorn for that inglorious soul, Which creeps and whines beneath a mob's control, Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod, And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god, There, in those walls--but, burning tongue forbear! Rank must be reverenced, even the rank that's there: So here I pause--and now, dear Hume, we part: But oft again, in frank exchange of heart, Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear By Thames at home, or by Potowmac here. O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs, 'Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs, Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes With me shall wonder, and with me despise. While I, as oft, in fancy's dream shall rove, With thee conversing, through that land I love, Where, like the air that fans her fields of green, Her freedom spreads, unfevered and serene; And sovereign man can condescend to see The throne and laws more sovereign still than he.

[1] "On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of the Federal City [says Mr. Weld] the identical spot on which the capitol now stands was called Rome. This anecdote is related by many as a certain prognostic of the future magnificence of this city, which is to be, as it were, a second Rome."--_Weld's Travels_, letter iv.

[2] A little stream runs through the city, which, with intolerable affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose- Creek.

[3] "To be under the necessity of going through a deep wood for one or two miles, perhaps, in order to see a next-door neighbor, and in the same city, is a curious and I believe, a novel circumstance."--_Weld_, letter iv.

The Federal City (if it, must be called a city), has hot been much increased since Mr. Weld visited it.

[4] The picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American Indian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more correct than the flattering representations which Mr. Jefferson has given us. See the Notes on Virginia, where this gentleman endeavors to disprove in general the opinion maintained so strongly by some philosophers that nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it) _belittles_ her productions in the western world.

[5] On a small hill near the capital there is to be an equestrian statue of General Washington.

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA.

Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved,
And bright were its flowery banks to his eye;
But far, very far were the friends that he loved,
And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh.

Oh Nature, though blessed and bright are thy rays,
O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown,
Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays
In a smile from the heart that is fondly our own.

Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain Unblest by the smile he had languished to meet; Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, Till the threshold of home had been pressed by his feet.

But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear, And they loved what they knew of so humble a name; And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear, That they found in his heart something better than fame.

Nor did woman--oh woman! Whose form and whose soul
Are the spell and the life of each path we pursue;
Whether sunned in the tropics or chilled at the pole,
If woman be there, there is happiness too:--

Nor did she her enamoring magic deny,--
That magic his heart had relinquished so long,--
Like eyes he had loved was _her_ eloquent eye,
Like them did it soften and weep at his song.

Oh, blest be the tear, and in memory oft
May its sparkle be shed o'er the wanderer's dream;
Thrice blest be that eye, and may passion as soft,
As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam!

The stranger is gone--but he will not forget,
When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known,
To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met,
As he strayed by the wave of the Schuylkill alone.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALLS OF THE MOHAWK KIVER.[1]

_Gia era in loco ove s'udia l'rimbombo
Dell' acqua_. DANTE.

From rise of morn till set of sun I've seen the mighty Mohawk run; And as I markt the woods of pine Along his mirror darkly shine, Like tall and gloomy forms that pass Before the wizard's midnight glass: And as I viewed the hurrying pace With which he ran his turbid race, Rushing, alike untried and wild, Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled, Flying by every green recess That wooed him to its calm caress, Yet, sometimes turning with the wind, As if to leave one look behind,-- Oft have I thought, and thinking sighed, How like to thee, thou restless tide, May be the lot, the life of him Who roams along thy water's brim; Through what alternate wastes of woe And flowers of joy my path may go; How many a sheltered, calm retreat May woo the while my weary feet, While still pursuing, still unblest, I wander on, nor dare to rest; But, urgent as the doom that calls Thy water to its destined falls, I feel the world's bewildering force Hurry my heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the spent current cease to run.

One only prayer I dare to make, As onward thus my course I take;-- Oh, be my falls as bright as thine! May heaven's relenting rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft as now it hangs o'er thee!

[1] There is a dreary and savage character in the country immediately about these Falls, which is much more in harmony with the wildness of such a scene than the cultivated lands in the neighborhood of Niagara.

SONG OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS.[1]

_qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla_
OVID _Metam. lib_ iii. v. 227.

Now the vapor, hot and damp, Shed by day's expiring lamp, Through the misty ether spreads Every ill the white man dreads; Fiery fever's thirsty thrill, Fitful ague's shivering chill!

Hark! I hear the traveller's song, As he winds the woods along;-- Christian, 'tis the song of fear; Wolves are round thee, night is near, And the wild thou dar'st to roam-- Think, 'twas once the Indian's home![2]

Hither, sprites, who love to harm, Wheresoe'er you work your charm, By the creeks, or by the brakes, Where the pale witch feeds her snakes, And the cayman[3] loves to creep, Torpid, to his wintry sleep: Where the bird of carrion flits, And the shuddering murderer sits,[4] Lone beneath a roof of blood; While upon his poisoned food, From the corpse of him he slew Drops the chill and gory dew.

Hither bend ye, turn ye hither, Eyes that blast and wings that wither Cross the wandering Christian's way, Lead him, ere the glimpse of day, Many a mile of maddening error Through the maze of night and terror, Till the morn behold him lying On the damp earth, pale and dying. Mock him, when his eager sight Seeks the cordial cottage-light; Gleam then, like the lightning-bug, Tempt him to the den that's dug For the foul and famished brood Of the she wolf, gaunt for blood; Or, unto the dangerous pass O'er the deep and dark morass, Where the trembling Indian brings Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings, Tributes, to be hung in air, To the Fiend presiding there![5]

Then, when night's long labor past, Wildered, faint, he falls at last, Sinking where the causeway's edge Moulders in the slimy sedge, There let every noxious thing Trail its filth and fix its sting; Let the bull-toad taint him over, Round him let mosquitoes hover, In his ears and eyeballs tingling, With his blood their poison mingling, Till, beneath the solar fires, Rankling all, the wretch expires!

[1] The idea of this poem occurred to me in passing through the very dreary wilderness between Batavia, a new settlement in the midst of the woods, and the little village of Buffalo upon Lake Erie. This is the most fatiguing part of the route, in travelling through the Genesee country to Niagara.

[2] "The Five Confederated Nations (of Indians) were settled along the banks of the Susquehannah and the adjacent country, until the year 1779, when General Sullivan, with an army of 4000 men drove them from their country to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on salted provisions, to which they were unaccustomed, great numbers of them died. Two hundred of them, it is said, were buried in one grave, where they had encamped."-- _Morse's American Geography_.

[3] The alligator, who is supposed to lie in a torpid state all the winter, in the bank of some creek or pond, having previously swallowed a large number of pine-knots, which are his only sustenance during the time.

[4] This was the mode of punishment for murder (as Charlevoix tells us) among the Hurons. "They laid the dead body upon poles at the top of a cabin, and the murderer was obliged to remain several days together, and to receive all that dropped from the carcass, not only on himself but on his food."

[5] "We find also collars of porcelain, tobacco, ears of maize, skins, etc., by the side of difficult and dangerous ways, on rocks, or by the side of the falls; and these are so many offerings made to the spirits which preside in these places."--See _Charlevoix's Letter on the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada_.

Father Hennepin too mentions this ceremony; he also says, "We took notice of one barbarian, who made a kind of sacrifice upon an oak at the Cascade of St. Anthony of Padua upon the river Mississippi."--See _Hennepin's Voyage into North America_.

TO THE HONORABLE W. R. SPENCER.

FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIE.

_nec venit ad duros musa vocata Getas_.
OVID. _ex Ponto, lib. 1. ep. 5_.

Thou oft hast told me of the happy hours Enjoyed by thee in fair Italia's bowers, Where, lingering yet, the ghost of ancient wit Midst modern monks profanely dares to flit. And pagan spirits, by the Pope unlaid, Haunt every stream and sing through every shade. There still the bard who (if his numbers be His tongue's light echo) must have talked like thee,-- The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught Those playful, sunshine holidays of thought, In which the spirit baskingly reclines, Bright without effort, resting while it shines,-- There still he roves, and laughing loves to see How modern priests with ancient rakes agree: How, 'neath the cowl, the festal garland shines, And Love still finds a niche in Christian shrines.

There still, too, roam those other souls of song, With whom thy spirit hath communed so long, That, quick as light, their rarest gems of thought, By Memory's magic to thy lip are brought. But here, alas! by Erie's stormy lake, As, far from such bright haunts my course I take, No proud remembrance o'er the fancy plays, No classic dream, no star of other days Hath left that visionary light behind, That lingering radiance of immortal mind, Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene, The humblest shed, where Genius once has been!

All that creation's varying mass assumes Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms; Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow, Bright lakes expand, and conquering[1] rivers flow; But mind, immortal mind, without whose ray, This world's a wilderness and man but clay, Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose, Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows. Take Christians, Mohawks, democrats, and all From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall, From man the savage, whether slaved or free, To man the civilized, less tame than he,-- 'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife Betwixt half-polished and half-barbarous life; Where every ill the ancient world could brew Is mixt with every grossness of the new; Where all corrupts, though little can entice, And naught is known of luxury but its vice!

Is this the region then, is this the clime For soaring fancies? for those dreams sublime, Which all their miracles of light reveal To heads that meditate and hearts that feel? Alas! not so--the Muse of Nature lights Her glories round; she scales the mountain heights, And roams the forests; every wondrous spot Burns with her step, yet man regards it not. She whispers round, her words are in the air, But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there,[2] Without one breath of soul, divinely strong, One ray of mind to thaw them into song.

Yet, yet forgive me, oh ye sacred few, Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew; Whom, known and loved through many a social eve, 'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave.[3] Not with more joy the lonely exile scanned The writing traced upon the desert's sand, Where his lone heart but little hoped to find One trace of life, one stamp of human kind, Than did I hail the pure, the enlightened zeal, The strength to reason and the warmth to feel, The manly polish and the illumined taste, Which,--mid the melancholy, heartless waste My foot has traversed,--oh you sacred few! I found by Delaware's green banks with you.

Long may you loathe the Gallic dross that runs Through your fair country and corrupts its sons; Long love the arts, the glories which adorn Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born. Oh! if America can yet be great, If neither chained by choice, nor doomed by fate To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now, She yet can raise the crowned, yet civic brow Of single majesty,--can add the grace Of Rank's rich capital to Freedom's base, Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove For the fair ornament that flowers above;-- If yet released from all that pedant throng, So vain of error and so pledged to wrong, Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide Weakness in vaunt and barrenness in pride, She yet can rise, can wreathe the Attic charms Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms, And see her poets flash the fires of song, To light her warriors' thunderbolts along;-- It is to you, to souls that favoring heaven Has made like yours, the glorious task is given:-- Oh! but for _such_, Columbia's days were done; Rank without ripeness, quickened without sun, Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er.

Believe me, Spencer, while I winged the hours Where Schuylkill winds his way through banks of flowers, Though few the days, the happy evenings few; So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, That my charmed soul forgot its wish to roam, And rested there, as in a dream of home. And looks I met, like looks I'd loved before, And voices too, which, as they trembled o'er The chord of memory, found full many a tone Of kindness there in concord with their own. Yes,--we had nights of that communion free, That flow of heart, which I have known with thee So oft, so warmly; nights of mirth and mind,

Of whims that taught, and follies that refined. When shall we both renew them? when, restored To the gay feast and intellectual board, Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine Those whims that teach, those follies that refine? Even now, as, wandering upon Erie's shore, I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar, I sigh for home,--alas! these weary feet Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet.

[1] This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking description of the confluence of the Missouri with the Mississippi.

[2] Alluding to the fanciful notion of "words congealed in northern air."

[3] In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at Philadelphia, I passed the few agreeable moments which my tour through the States afforded me. Mr. Dennie has succeeded in diffusing through this cultivated little circle that love for good literature and sound politics which he feels so zealously himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic of his countrymen. They will not, I trust, accuse me of illiberality for the picture which I have given of the ignorance and corruption that surround them. If I did not hate, as I ought, the rabble to which they are opposed, I could not value, as I do, the spirit with which they defy it; and in learning from them what Americans _can be_, I but see with the more indignation what Americans _are_.

BALLAD STANZAS.

I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near.
And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world,
"A heart that was humble might hope for it here!"
It was noon, and on flowers that languished around
In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

And, "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed,
"With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,
"Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,
How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!

"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
"In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
"And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips,
"Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!"

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.[1]

_et remigem cantus hortatur_.
QUINTILIAN.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.[2] Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl, But, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

[1] I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sung to us frequently. The wind was so unfavorable that they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all such difficulties.

[2] "At the Rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the whole, of their lading. It is from this spot Canadians consider they take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which is dedicated to the tutelar saint of voyagers."--_Mackenzie, General History of the Fur Trade_.

TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.

FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.

Not many months have now been dreamed away Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded shores, Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours, And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze, Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries;-- Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves, Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves, And hears the spirit-voice of sire, or chief, Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf. There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung My own unpolished lays, how proud I've hung On every tuneful accent! proud to feel. That notes like mine should have the fate to steal, As o'er thy hallowing lip they sighed along. Such breath of passion and such soul of song. Yes,--I have wondered, like some peasant boy Who sings, on Sabbath-eve, his strains of joy, And when he hears the wild, untutored note Back to his ear on softening echoes float, Believes it still some answering spirit's tone, And thinks it all too sweet to be his own!

I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year Had filled its circle, I should wander here In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world, See all its store of inland waters hurled In one vast volume down Niagara's steep, Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep, Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed; Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide Down the white rapids of his lordly tide Through massy woods, mid islets flowering fair, And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair For consolation might have weeping trod, When banished from the garden of their God, Oh, Lady! these are miracles, which man, Caged in the bounds of Europe's pigmy span, Can scarcely dream of,--which his eye must see To know how wonderful this world can be!

But lo,--the last tints of the west decline, And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine. Among the reeds, in which our idle boat Is rocked to rest, the wind's complaining note Dies like a half-breathed whispering of flutes; Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots, And I can trace him, like a watery star,[1] Down the steep current, till he fades afar Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light. Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night. Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray, And the smooth glass-snake,[2] glid-o'er my way, Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form, Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm, Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze Some Indian Spirit warble words like these:--

From the land beyond the sea,
Whither happy spirits flee;
Where, transformed to sacred doves,[3]
Many a blessed Indian roves
Through the air on wing, as white
As those wondrous stones of light,[4]
Which the eye of morning counts
On the Apalachian mounts,--
Hither oft my flight I take
Over Huron's lucid lake,
Where the wave, as clear as dew,
Sleeps beneath the light canoe,
Which, reflected, floating there,
Looks as if it hung in air.

Then, when I have strayed a while Through the Manataulin isle,[5] Breathing all its holy bloom, Swift I mount me on the plume Of my Wakon-Bird,[6] and fly Where, beneath a burning sky, O'er the bed of Erie's lake Slumbers many a water-snake, Wrapt within the web of leaves, Which the water-lily weaves.[7] Next I chase the floweret-king Through his rosy realm of spring; See him now, while diamond hues Soft his neck and wings suffuse, In the leafy chalice sink, Thirsting for his balmy drink; Now behold him all on fire, Lovely in his looks of ire, Breaking every infant stem, Scattering every velvet gem, Where his little tyrant lip Had not found enough to sip.

Then my playful hand I steep Where the gold-thread loves to creep, Cull from thence a tangled wreath, Words of magic round it breathe, And the sunny chaplet spread O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head, Till, with dreams of honey blest, Haunted, in his downy nest, By the garden's fairest spells, Dewy buds and fragrant bells, Fancy all his soul embowers In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers.

Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes Melt along the ruffled lakes, When the gray moose sheds his horns, When the track, at evening, warns Weary hunters of the way To the wigwam's cheering ray, Then, aloft through freezing air, With the snow-bird soft and fair As the fleece that heaven flings O'er his little pearly wings, Light above the rocks I play, Where Niagara's starry spray, Frozen on the cliff, appears Like a giant's starting tears. There, amid the island-sedge, Just upon the cataract's edge, Where the foot of living man Never trod since time began, Lone I sit, at close of day, While, beneath the golden ray, Icy columns gleam below, Feathered round with falling snow, And an arch of glory springs, Sparkling as the chain of rings Round the neck of virgins hung,-- Virgins, who have wandered young O'er the waters of the west To the land where spirits rest!

Thus have I charmed, with visionary lay, The lonely moments of the night away; And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams! Once more, embarked upon the glittering streams, Our boat flies light along the leafy shore, Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark, Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood, While on its deck a pilot angel stood, And, with his wings of living light unfurled, Coasted the dim shores of another world!

Yet, oh! believe me, mid this mingled maze Of Nature's beauties, where the fancy strays From charm to charm, where every floweret's hue Hath something strange, and every leaf is new,-- I never feel a joy so pure and still So inly felt, as when some brook or hill, Or veteran oak, like those remembered well, Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell, (For, who can say by what small fairy ties The memory clings to pleasure as it flies?) Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream I once indulged by Trent's inspiring stream; Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights.

Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore, With him, the polished warrior, by thy side, A sister's idol and a nation's pride! When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye Turn to the living hero, while it read, For pure and brightening comments on the dead;-- Or whether memory to my mind recalls The festal grandeur of those lordly halls, When guests have met around the sparkling board, And welcome warmed the cup that luxury poured; When the bright future Star of England's throne, With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone, Winning respect, nor claiming what he won, But tempering greatness, like an evening sun Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire, Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire;-- Whatever hue my recollections take, Even the regret, the very pain they wake Is mixt with happiness;--but, ah! no more-- Lady! adieu--my heart has lingered o'er Those vanished times, till all that round me lies, Stream, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes!

[1] Anburey, in his Travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which porpoises diffuse at night through the river St. Lawrence,--Vol. i. p. 29.

[2] The glass-snake is brittle and transparent.

[3] "The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according to some, it is transformed into a dove."--_Charlevoix upon the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada_.

[4] "The mountains appeared to be sprinkled with white stones, which glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians manetoe aseniah, or spirit-stones."--_Mackenzie's Journal_.

[5] Manataulin signifies a Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the Indians.

[6] "The Wakon-Bird, which probably is of the same species with the bird of Paradise, receives its name from the ideas the Indians have of its superior excellence; the Wakon-Bird being, in their language, the Bird of the Great Spirit."--_Morse_.

[7] The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a considerable distance by the large pond-lily, whose leaves spread thickly over the surface of the lake, and form a kind of bed for the water-snakes in summer.

IMPROMPTU.

AFTER A VISIT TO MRS. ----, OF MONTREAL.

'Twas but for a moment--and yet in that time
She crowded the impressions of many an hour:
Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime,
Which waked every feeling at once into flower.

Oh! could we have borrowed from Time but a day,
To renew such impressions again and again,
The things we should look and imagine and say
Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then.

What we had not the leisure or language to speak,
We should find some more spiritual mode of revealing,
And, between us, should feel just as much in a week
As others would take a millennium in feeling.

WRITTEN

ON PASSING DEADMAN'S ISLAND, IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE,[1] LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPTEMBER, 1804.

See you, beneath yon cloud so dark, Fast gliding along a gloomy bark? Her sails are full,--though the wind is still, And there blows not a breath her sails to fill!

Say, what doth that vessel of darkness bear? The silent calm of the grave is there, Save now and again a death-knell rung, And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung.

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore Of cold and pitiless Labrador; Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost, Full many a mariner's bones are tost.

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck, And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck, Doth play on as pale and livid a crew, As ever yet drank the churchyard dew.

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast, To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast; By skeleton shapes her sails are furled, And the hand that steers is not of this world!

Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on, Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone, Nor let morning look on so foul a sight As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

[1] This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a superstition very common among sailors, who called this ghost-ship, I think, "The Flying Dutchman."

TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE, ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND,[1]

OCTOBER, 1804.

With triumph, this morning, oh Boston! I hail The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail, For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee, To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free, And that chill Nova-Scotia's unpromising strand Is the last I shall tread of American land. Well--peace to the land! may her sons know, at length, That in high-minded honor lies liberty's strength, That though man be as free as the fetterless wind, As the wantonest air that the north can unbind, Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the blast, If no harvest of mind ever sprung where it past, Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its might,-- Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight!

Farewell to the few I have left with regret: May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget; The delight of those evenings,--too brief a delight! When in converse and song we have stolen on the night; When they've asked me the manners, the mind, or the mien, Of some bard I had known or some chief I had seen, Whose glory, though distant, they long had adored, Whose name had oft hallowed the wine-cup they poured; And still as, with sympathy humble but true, I have told of each bright son of fame all I knew, They have listened, and sighed that the powerful stream Of America's empire should pass like a dream, Without leaving one relic of genius, to say, How sublime was the tide which had vanished away! Farewell to the few--though we never may meet On this planet again, it is soothing and sweet To think that, whenever my song or my name Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and blest, Ere hope had deceived me or sorrow deprest.

But, Douglas! while thus I recall to my mind The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind, I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye As it follows the rack flitting over the sky, That the faint coming breeze would be fair for our flight, And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night. Dear Douglas! thou knowest, with thee by my side, With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to guide, There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas, Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to freeze, Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore, That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore! Oh think then how gladly I follow thee now, When Hope smooths the billowy path of our prow, And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind Takes me nearer the home where my heart is inshrined; Where the smile of a father shall meet me again, And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain; Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart, And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part?--

But see!--the bent top sails are ready to swell-- To the boat--I am with thee--Columbia, farewell!

[1] Commanded by Captain J. E. Douglas, with whom I returned to England, and to whom I am indebted for many, many kindnesses.

IRISH MELODIES

DEDICATION

TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL.

It is now many years since, in, a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of that work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character reflected honor on the country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every succeeding year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under your protection, and am,

With perfect Sincerity, Your Ladyship's ever attached friend,

THOMAS MOORE.