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Long the smile his heart will cherish,
To its absent idol true,
Glory still will sigh for you !
1801. To be the theme of every hour The heart devotes to Fancy's power, When her soft magic fills the mind With friends and joys we've left behind, And joys return and friends are near, And all are welcomed with a tear ! In the mind's purest seat to dwell, To be remembered oft and well By one whose heart, though vain and wild, By passion led, by youth beguiled, Can proudly still aspire to know The feeling soul's divinest glow ! If thus to live in every part Of a lone weary wanderer's heart; If thus to be its sole employ Can give thee one faint gleam of joy, Believe it, Mary! oh! believe A tongue that never can deceive, When passion doth not first betray And tinge the thought upon its way! In pleasure's dream or sorrow's hour, In crowded hall or lonely bower, The business of my life shall be, For ever, to remember thee! And though that heart be dead to mine, Since love is life and wakes not thine, I'll take thy image as the form Of something I should long to warm, Which, though it yield no answering thrill, Is not less dear, is lovely still ! I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray, The bright, cold burthen of my way! To keep this semblance fresh in bloom, My heart shall be its glowing tomb, And love shall lend his sweetest care, With memory to embalm it there!
In passion's moment breathed to me ;
And has become too pure for thee !
Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh
With all the warmth of truth imprest;
Or bloom to make a rival blest!
My heart received, I thought, from thine ;
As sweetly as they've ruined mine!
THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.
WRITTEN AT NORFOLK IN VIRGINIA.
"They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, sud. denly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses.' - Anon. 'La Poésie a ses monstres comme la Nature.'--D'Alembert.
' THEY made her a grave, too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true ;
She paddles her white canoe.
And her paddle I soon shall hear ;
When the footstep of Death is near!
His path was rugged and sore,
And man never trod before !
If slumber his eyelids knew,
The flesh with blistering dew!
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond.
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
And the white canoe of my dear?'
Quick over its surface played -
The name of the death-cold maid !
Which carried him off from shore;
And the boat returned no more.
This lover and maid so true
And paddle their white canoe !
TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF D---LL.
FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.
| Lady D., I supposed, was at this time still in 2 The chapel of William Tell, on the Lake of Switzerland, where the powers of her pencil must Lucerne. have been frequently awakened,
Oh! might the song awake some bright design,
Have you not oft, in nightly vision, strayel
The morn was lovely, every wave was still,
Nothing can be more romantic than the little gliding for ever between the islands, and seeming harbour of St. George. The number of beautiful to sail from one cedar-grove into another, form islets, the singular clearness of the water, and altogether the sweetest miniature of nature that the animated play of the graceful little boats, can be imagined.
Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade ;
THE GENIUS OF HARMONY.
AN IRREGULAR ODE.
Ad harmoniam canere mundum.- Cicero, De Nat. Deor. lib. 3.
THERE lies a shell beneath the waves
Such as of old,
This is an allusion which, to the few who which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, are fanciful enough to indulge in it, renders the by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. In man, and received me well and warmly, but I the short but beautiful twilight of their spring never could turn his house into a Grecian temple eveniugs, the white cottages scattered over the again, islands, and but partially seen through the trees 2 Ariel. Among the many charms which Ber. that surround them, assume often the appear- | muda,ʻthe still vexed Bermoothes,'has for a poetic ance of little Grecian temples, and fancy may eye, we cannot for an instant forget that it is the embellish the poor fisherman's hut with columns scene of Shakspeare's Tempest, and that here he which the pencil of Claude might imitate. I had conjured up the delicate Ariel.' one favourite object of this kind in my walks,