POEMS. TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY SWEET Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,* To make thy disk its ample page, And write my thoughts, my wishes there; How little, when we parted last, 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, To gather bliss from all we knew. When, mingling lore and laugh together, And yet, 't was time; - in youth's sweet days, To cool that season's glowing rays, Oh! she awak'd such happy dreams, When flying from the Phrygian shore, * 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 Pursues the murmurers of the deep, I often think, if friends were near, The sea is like a silvery lake, And, o'er its calm the vessel glides The slumber of the silent tides. Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,* Now, could I range those verdant isles, And see the looks, the beaming smiles, That brighten many an orange bower; * 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 could I lift each pious veil, And see the blushing cheek it shades, — Oh! I should have full many a tale, To tell of young Azorian maids. Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps, 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 smil'd 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; |