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Glided among the festal throng
Bearing rich urns of flowers along.
Where roses lay, in languor breathing, [ing,
And the young beegrape,* round them wreath-
Hung on their blushes warm and meek,
Like curls upon a rosy cheek.

Oh, Nea! why did morning break

The spell that thus divinely bound me?
Why did I wake? how could I wake

With thee my own and heaven around me!

WELL — peace to thy heart, though another's it be, And health to that cheek, though it bļoom not for

me! To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves, Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves, And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet Their allurements forgive and their splendour forget.

Farewell to Bermuda,f and long may the bloom
Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume;

* Apiana, mentioned by Pliny, lib. xiv. and “now called the Muscatell (a muscarum telis),” says Pancirollus, book i. sect. i. chap. 17.

† I had, at this time, some idea of paying a visit to the West Indies.

† The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. See the commentators on the words “still-vex'd Bermoothes,” in the Tempest.


May spring to eternity hallow the shade,
Where Ariel has warbled and Waller * has stray'd.
And thou — when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to

Through the lime-cover'd alley that leads to thy
Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done,
And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun,
I have led thee along, and have told by the way
What my heart all the night had been burning to say-
Oh! think of the past — give a sigh to those times,
And a blessing for me to that alley of limes.

IF I were yonder wave, my dear,

And thou the isle it clasps around,
I would not let a foot come near

My land of bliss, my fairy ground.

If I were yonder conch of gold,

And thou the pearl within it plac'd,
I would not let an eye behold

The sacred gem my arms embrac'd.

If I were yonder orange-tree,

And thou the blossom blooming there,
I would not yield a breathe of thee

To scent the most imploring air.

Johnson does not think that Waller was ever at Bermuda; but the “ Account of the European Settlements in America" affirms it confidently. (Vol. ii.)

Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink,

Give not the wave that odorous sigh, Nor let its burning mirror drink

The soft reflection of thine eye.

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,

So pictur’d in the waters seem, That I could gladly plunge to seek

Thy image in the glassy stream.

Blest fate! at once my chilly grave

And nuptial bed that stream might be ; I'll wed thee in its mimic wave,

And die upon the shade of thee.

Behold the leafy mangrove, bending

O’er the waters blue and bright, Like Nea’s silky lashes, lending Shadow to her


of light.

Oh, my belov’d! where'er I turn,

Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes ; In every star thy glances burn;

Thy blush on every flow'ret lies.

Nor find I in creation aught

Of bright, or beautiful, or rare, Sweet to the sense, or pure to thought,

But thou art found reflected there.


No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep

An island of lovelier charms ;
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,

Like Hebe in Hercules' arms.
The blush of your bowers is light to the eye,

And their melody balm to the ear;
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,

And the Snow Spirit never comes. here.

The down from his wing is as white as the pearl

That shines through thy lips when they part, And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,

As a murmur of thine on the heart. Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death,

As he cradles the birth of the year ; Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,

But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale,

And brightening the bosom of morn,
He Aings, like the priest of Diana, a veil

O'er the brow of each virginal thorn.
Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts

Is the veil of a vestal severe ;
No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts,

Should the Snow Spirit ever come here.

But fly to his region lay open thy zone,

And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim,
To think that a bosom, as white as his own,

Should not melt in the daybeam like him.
Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet

O’er his luminous path will appear Fly, my beloved ! this island is sweet,

But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

Ενταύθα δε καθωρμισται ημιν. και ότι μεν ονομα τη νησω, ουκ οιδα χρυση δ' αν προς γε εμου ονομαζοιτο. -PHILOSTRAT. Icon. 17. lib. ii.

I STOLE along the flowery bank,
While many a bending seagrape * drank
The sprinkle of the feathery oar
That wing'd me round this fairy shore.

'Twas noon; and every orange bud
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,
Faint as the lids of maiden's eyes
When love-thoughts in her bosom rise.
Oh, for a naiad's sparry bower,
To shade me in that glowing hour!

A little dove, of milky hue,
Before me from a plantain flew,

* The seaside or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies.

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