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TO THE

MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF D-—LL.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

LADY! where'er you roam, whatever beam
Of bright creation warms your mimic dream;
Whether you trace the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads; *
Enamour'd catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;
Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on the holy shrine, †
Where, many a night, the soul of Tell complains
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;

Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the tablet that creative eye,
And let its splendour, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay!

Yet, Lady! no-for song so rude as mine,
Chase not the wonders of your dream divine;

*

Lady D., I supposed, was at this time still in Switzerland, where the powers of her pencil must have been frequently awakened.

+ The chapel of William Tell, on the Lake of Lucerne.

Still, radiant eye! upon the tablet dwell;

Still, rosy finger! weave your pictured spell ;
And, while I sing the animated smiles

Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles,

Oh! might the song awake some bright design,
Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line,
Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought
On Painting's mirror so divinely caught,
And wondering Genius, as he lean'd to trace
The faint conception kindling into grace,
Might love my numbers for the spark they threw,
And bless the lay that lent a charm to you!

Have you not oft, in nightly vision, stray'd
To the pure isles of ever-blooming shade,
Which bards of old, with kindly magic, placed
For happy spirits in th' Atlantic waste?*
There as eternal gales, with fragrance warm,
Breathed from Elysium through each shadowy form

* M. GEBELIN says, in his Monde Primitif, “Lorsque Strabon crut que les anciens théologiens et poëtes plaçaient les Champs Élysées dans les Isles de l'Océan Atlantique, il n'entendit rien à leur doctrine." M. GEBELIN'S supposition, I have no doubt, is the more correct; but that of STRABO is, in the present instance, most to my purpose.

In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song,

They charm'd their lapse of nightless hours along! Nor yet in song that mortal ear may suit,

For every spirit was itself a lute

Where Virtue waken'd, with elysian breeze,
Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies!
Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland
Floated our bark to this enchanted land,
These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown,
Like studs of emerald o'er a silver zone;
Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave
To blessed arbours o'er the western wave,
Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime,
Of bowers ethereal and the spirit's clime!

The morn was lovely, every wave was still,
When the first perfume of a cedar-hill
Sweetly awaked us, and with smiling charms
The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms. *

*

Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbour of St. George. The number of beautiful islets, the singular clearness of the water, and the animated play of the graceful little boats, gliding for ever between the islands, and seeming to sail from one cedar-grove into another, form all together the sweetest miniature of nature that can be imagined.

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