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POEMS.

TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY

MOONLIGHT.

Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,*

By any spell my hand could dare
To make thy disk its ample page,

And write my thoughts, my wishes there ;
How many a friend, whose careless eye
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet
The recollection, kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,
The promise, never to forget,
And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-lov'd, distant friend.

How little, when we parted last,
I thought those pleasant times were past,
For ever past, when brilliant joy
Was all my vacant heart's employ:

* Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the Moon by the means of a magic mirror. — See Bayle, art. Pythag.

When, fresh from mirth to mirth again,

We thought the rapid hours too few;
Our only use for knowledge then

To gather bliss from all we knew.
Delicious days of whim and soul!

When, mingling lore and laugh together,
We lean’d the book on Pleasure's bowl,

And turn'd the leaf with Folly's feather.
Little I thought that all were fled,
That, ere that summer's bloom was shed,
My eye should see the sail unfurld
That wafts me to the western world.

And yet, ’t was time; in youth's sweet days,
To cool that season's glowing rays,
The heart awhile, with wanton wing,
May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring;
But, if it wait for winter's breeze,
The spring will chill, the heart will freeze.
And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,

Oh! she awak'd such happy dreams,
And gave my soul such tempting scope

For all its dearest, fondest schemes,
That not Verona's child of

song,
When flying from the Phrygian shore,
With lighter heart could bound along,

Or pant to be a wanderer more! *

Alluding to these animated lines in the 44th Carmen of Catullus:

Jam mens prætrepidans avet vagari,
Jam læti studio pedes vigescunt!

Even now delusive hope will steal Amid the dark regrets I feel, Soothing, as yonder placid beam

Pursues the murmurers of the deep, And lights them with consoling gleam,

And smiles them into tranquil sleep. Oh! such a blessed night as this,

I often think, if friends were near, How we should feel, and gaze with bliss

Upon the moon-bright scenery here!

The sea is like a silvery lake,

And, o'er its calm the vessel glides Gently, as if it fear’d to wake

The slumber of the silent tides. The only envious cloud that lowers

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height, * Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers,

And scowling at this heav'n of light,
Exults to see the infant storm
Cling darkly round his giant form!

Now, could I range those verdant isles,

Invisible, at this soft hour,
And see the looks, the beaming smiles,

That brighten many an orange bower; And could I lift each pious veil,

* A very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the island derives its name. It is said by some to be as high as the Peak of Teneriffe.

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

To tell of young Azorian maids.

Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps,

Some lover (not too idly blest, Like those, who in their ladies' laps

May cradle every wish to rest) Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul,

Those madrigals, of breath divine, Which Camoens' harp from Rapture stole

And gave, all glowing warm, to thine.* Oh ? could the lover learn from thee,

And breathe them with thy graceful tone Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy

Would make the coldest nymph his own.

But, hark !- the boatswain's pipings tell 'Tis time to bid my dream farewell: Eight bells :

the middle watch is set ; Good night, my Strangford !-- ne'er forget That, far beyond the western sea Is one, whose heart remembers thee.

* These islands belong to the Portuguese.

STANZAS.

θυμος δε ποτ' εμος

με προσφωνει ταδε: Γινωσκε τανθρωπεια μη σεβειν αγαν.

Æschyl. Fragment.

A BEAM of tranquillity smild in the west,

The storms of the morning pursued us no more ; And the wave, while it welcom'd the moment of rest,

Still heav'd, as remembering ills that were o'er.

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,

Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead; And the spirit becalm'd but remember'd their power,

As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.

I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone

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

Was pity for those who were wiser than I.

I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire

The pearl of the soul may be melted away; How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire We inherit from heav'n, may be quenched in the

clay;

And I pray'd of that Spirit who lighted the flame,

That Pleasure no more might its purity dim;

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