TO THE

LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.

FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.

Nor many months have now been dream'd 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.1
There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung
My own unpolish'd 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 sigh'd along,
Such breath of passion and such soul of song.
Yes-I have wonder'd, like some peasant boy
Who sings, on Sabbath-eve, his strains of joy,
And when he hears the wild, untutor'd 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, e'er the rolling year Had fill'd its circle, I should wander here In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world, See all its store of inland waters hurl'd 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 banish'd 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 rock'd to rest, the wind's complaining note
Dies like a half-breath'd whispering of flutes;
Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots,
And I can trace him, like a watery star,
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 3, gliding 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, transform'd to sacred doves,
Many a blessed Indian roves
Through the air on wing, as white
As those wondrous stones of light,
Which the eye of morning counts
On the Apallachian moufits,-
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 stray'd a while
Through the Manataulin isle,"
Breathing all its holy bloom,
Swift I mount me on the plume
Of my Wakon-Birds, and fly
Where, beneath a burning sky,
O'er the bed of Erie's lake
Slumbers many a water-snake,

shone bright, I could sit in my canoe, where the depth was upwards of six fathoms, and plainly see huge piles of stone at the bottom, of different shapes, some of which appeared as if they had been hewn the water was at this time as pure and transparent as air, and my canoe seemed as if it hung suspended in that element. It was impossible to look attentively through this limpid medium at the rocks below, without finding, before many minutes were elapsed, your head swim and your eyes no longer able to behold the dazzling scene."

7 Après avoir travers plusieurs isles peu considérables, nous en trouvâmes le quatrième jour une fameuse nommée l'Isle de Manitoualin.-Voyages du Baron de Luhontan, tom. i. let. 15. Manataulin signifies a Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the Indians.

"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.

DD

Wrapt within the web of leaves,
Which the water-lily weaves.'
Next I chase the flow'ret-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,
Scatt'ring 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 wig-wam'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,

1 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.

2 "The gold thread is of the vine kind, and grows in swamps. The roots spread themselves just under the surface of the morasses, and are easily drawn out by handfuls. They resemble a large entangled skein of silk, and are of a bright yellow "Morse.

3 "L'oiseau mouche, gros comme un hanneton, est de toutes couleurs, vives et changeantes: il tire sa subsistence des fleurs comme les abeilles; son nid est fait d'un coton très-fin suspendu à une branche d'arbre."- Voyages aux Indes Occidentales, par M. Bossu, seconde part, lett. xx.

Icy columns gleam below,
Feather'd 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 wander'd young
O'er the waters of the west

To the land where spirits rest!

Thus have I charm'd, with visionary lay, The lonely moments of the night away; And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams! Once more embark'd upon the glitt'ring 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 unfurl'd, 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 flow'ret'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 remember'd well,
Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell,
(For, who can say by what small fairy ties
The mem'ry clings to pleasure as it flies?)
Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream
I once indulg'd 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 polish'd 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 bright'ning comments on the dead; —
Or whether memory to my mind recalls
The festal grandeur of those lordly halls,

4 Emberiza hyemalis.- See Imlay's Kentucky, p. 290.

5 Lafitau supposes that there was an order of vestals established among the Iroquois Indians.-Mœurs des Sauvages Américains, $c. tom. i. p. 173.

6 Vedi che sdegna gli argomenti umani; Si che remo non vuol, ne altro velo, Che l' ale sue tra liti si lontani.

Vedi comme l'ha dritte verso 'l cielo
Trattando l' aere con l' eterne penne :
Che non si mutan, come mortal pelo.

DANTE, Purgator, cant. i.

When guests have met around the sparkling board,
And welcome warm'd the cup that luxury pour'd;
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

mix'd with happiness;-but, ah! no more-
Lady! adieu-my heart has linger'd o'er
Those vanish'd times, till all that round me lies,
Stream, banks and bowers have faded on my eyes!

IMPROMPTU,

AFTER A VISIT TO MRS.

Her

OF MONTREAL.

'Twas but for a moment-and yet in that time She crowded th' impressions of many an hour: eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime, Which wak'd every feeling at once into flower. Oh! could we have borrow'd 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,

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!

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 call this ghostship. I think," the flying Dutchman."

We were thirteen days on our passage from Quebec to Halifax, and I had been so spoiled by the truly splendid hospitality of my friends of the Phaeton and Boston, that I was but ill prepared for the miseries of a Canadian vessel. The weather, however, was pleasant, and the scenery along the river delightful. Our passage

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 furl'd,
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!

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 strand3
Is the last I shall tread of American land.
Well-peace to the land! may her sons know, at
length,

That in high-minded honour 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 pass'd,
Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its

might,

Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight!

through the Gut of Canso, with a bright sky and a fair wind, was particularly striking and romantic.

2 Commanded by Captain J. E. Douglas, with whom I returned to England, and to whom I am indebted for many, many kindnesses. In truth, I should but offend the delicacy of my friend Douglas, and, at the same time, do injustice to my own feelings of gratitude, did I attempt to say how much I owe to him.

3 Sir John Wentworth, the Governor of Nova Scotia, very kindly allowed me to accompany him on his visit to the College, which

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 stol'n on the night;

When they've ask'd 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 ador'd,
Whose name had oft hallow'd the wine-cup they
pour'd;

And still as, with sympathy humble but true,
I have told of each bright son of fame all I knew,
They have listen'd, and sigh'd 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 vanish'd 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 deceiv'd me or sorrow deprest.

But, Douglas! while thus I recall to my mind The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind,

they have lately established at Windsor, about forty miles from Halifax, and I was indeed most pleasantly surprised by the beauty and fertility of the country which opened upon us after the bleak and rocky wilderness by which Halifax is surrounded. I was told

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 will 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 track of the line, not a barbarous shore, That I could not with patience, with pleasure ex

plore!

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 enshrin'd;

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 swellTo the boat-I am with thee - Columbia, farewell!

that, in travelling onwards, we should find the soil and the scenery improve, and it gave me much pleasure to know that the worthy Governor has by no means such an “inamabile regnum" as I was, at first sight, inclined to believe.