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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 placed,
I would not let an eye behold

The sacred gem my arms embraced! If I were yonder orange-tree,

And thou the blossom blooming there,

I would not yield a breath of thee,

To scent the most imploring air! Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink, Give not the wave that rosy sigh, Nor let its burning mirror drink

The soft reflection of thine eye. That glossy hair, that glowing cheek, Upon the billows pour their beam So warmly, that my soul could seek Its Nea in the painted strean. The painted stream my chilly grave And nuptial bed at once may be ; I'll wed thee in that mimic wave, And die upon the shade of thee!

Johnson does not think that Waller was ever at Bermuda; but the Account of the European Settlements in America affirms it confidently (vol. ii). I mention this work, however, less for

Behold the leafy mangrove bending O'er the waters blue and bright, Like Nea's silky lashes, lending Shadow to her eyes of light!

Oh, my beloved! where'er I turn. Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes; In every star thy glances buro,

Thy blush on every floweret lies. But then thy breath!-not all the fire That lights the lone Semenda's death In eastern climes, could e'er respire An odour like thy dulcet breath! I pray thee, on those lips of thine

To wear this rosy leaf for me, And breathe of something not divine, Since nothing human breathes of thee! All other charms of thine I meet

In nature, but thy sigh alone; Then take, oh! take, though not so sweet,

The breath of roses for thine own! So while I walk the flowery grove, The bud that gives, through morning dew,

The lustre of the lips I love,

May seem to give their perfume too!

THE SNOW SPIRIT.
Tu potes insolitas, Cynthia, ferre nives?
Propert. lib. i. eleg. 8.

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

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

Like Hebe in Hercules' arms! The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye,

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

Thy lips for their cabinet stole,

its authority than for the pleasure I feel in quoting an unacknowledged production of the great Edmund Burke.

And it falls on the green earth as melt- | Oh for a Naiad's sparry bower,

ing, my girl,

As a murmur of thine on the soul! 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 flings, 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 day-beam

like him!

Oh! lovely the print of those delicate

feet

O'er his luminous path will appearFly! my beloved! this island is sweet, But the Snow Spirit cannot come here!

Ενταυθα δε καθωρμισται ἡμιν. και ό, τι μεν ονομα τῇ νήσῳ ουκ οίδα χρυσή δ' αν προς γε μου ovoμasoiтo.-Philostrat. Icon. 17, lib. 2.

I STOLE along the flowery bank,

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To shade me in that glowing hour!

A little dove, of milky hue,
Before me from a plantain flew,
And, light along the water's brim,
I steered my gentle bark by him;
For Fancy told me Love had sent
This snowy bird of blandishment,
To lead me, where my soul should
meet-

I knew not what, but something sweet!
Blest be the little pilot dove!
He had indeed been sent by Love,
To guide me to a scene so dear
As Fate allows but seldom here :
One of those rare and brilliant hours,
Which, like the aloe's lingering flowers,
May blossom to the eye of man
But once in all his weary span !
Just where the margin's opening shade
A vista from the waters made,
My bird reposed his silver plume
Upon a rich banana's bloom.

What spell, what magic raised her there?
Oh, vision bright! oh, spirit fair!
'Twas Nea! slumbering calm and mild,
Whose spirit in Elysium keeps
And bloomy as the dimpled child
Its playful sabbath while he sleeps!

The broad banana's embrace
green
Hung shadowy round each tranquil
One little beam alone could win
grace;
The leaves to let it wander in,
And stealing over all her charms,
From lip to cheek, from neck to arms,
It glanced around a fiery kiss,
All trembling, as it went, with bliss!

While many a bending sea-grape 1 Her eyelid's black and silken fringe

drank

The sprinkle of the feathery oar
That winged me round this fairy shore!
'Twas noon; and every orange bud
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,
Faint as the lids of maiden eyes
Beneath a lover's burning sighs!

Lay on her cheek, of vermil tinge,
Like the first ebon cloud that closes
Dark on Evening's Heaven of roses!
Her glances, though in slumber hid,
Seemed glowing through their ivory
lid;

And o'er her lip's reflecting dew
A soft and liquid lustre threw,

The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of Such as, declining dim and faint,

the West Indies,

The lamp of some beloved saint

Doth shed upon a flowery wreath,
Which pious hands have hung beneath.
Was ever witchery half so sweet!
Think, think how all my pulses beat,
As o'er the rustling bank İ stole-
Oh! you that know the lover's soul,
It is for you to dream the bliss,
The tremblings of an hour like this.

I FOUND her not-the chamber seemed
Like some divinely haunted place,
Where fairy forms had lately beamed,
And left behind their odorous trace !

It felt as if her lips had shed
A sigh around her, ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air
Of melodies which had been there!
I saw the web, which, all the day,
Had floated o'er her cheek of rose,
I saw the couch, where late she lay
In languor of divine repose!

And I could trace the hallowed print
Her limbs had left, as pure and warm
As if 'twere done in rapture's mint,

And Love himself had stamped the
form!

Oh, Nea! Nea! where wert thou?
In pity fly not thus from me;
Thou art my life, my essence now,
And my soul dies of wanting thee !

A KISS A L'ANTIQUE.
BEHOLD, my love, the curious gem
Within this simple ring of gold;
'Tis hallowed by the touch of them
Who lived in classic hours of old.

Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,
Upon her hand this gem displayed,

1 Somewhat like the symplegma of Cupid and Psyche at Florence, in which the position of Psyche's hand is finely expressive of affection. See the Museum Florentinum, tom. ii. tab. 43,

Nor thought that time's eternal lapse Should see it grace a lovelier maid! Look, darling, what a sweet design!

The more we gaze, it charms the more! Come,-closer bring that cheek to mine, And trace with me its beauties o'er. Thou seest, it is a simple youth

By some enamoured nymph em-
braced-

Look, Nea, love! and say, in sooth,
Is not her hand most dearly placed?

Upon his curled head behind

It seems in careless play to lie,1 Yet presses gently, half inclined To bring his lip of nectar nigh!

Oh happy maid! too happy boy!

The one so fond and faintly loth, The other yielding slow to joy

Oh, rare indeed, but blissful both!

Imagine, love, that I am he,

And just as warm as he is chilling; Imagine too that thou art she, But quite as cold as she is willing:

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'THE daylight is gone-but, before we depart,
One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
To the kindest, the dearest-oh! judge by the tear,
That I shed while I name him, how kind and how dear!'

'Twas thus, by the shade of a calabash-tree,
With a few who could feel and remember like me,
The charm, that to sweeten my goblet I threw,
Was a tear to the past and a blessing on you!

the Government of the day, was a wild and use. less speculation. Mr. Hamilton, who was governor of the island some years since, proposed, if I mistake not, the establishment of a marine academy for the instruction of those children of West Indians who might be intended for any nautical employment. This was a more rational idea, and for something of this nature the island is admirably calculated. But the plan should be much more extensive, and embrace a

Pinkerton has said that 'a good history and description of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the geographical library; but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is but little which the historian could amplify into importance; and, with respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to culti-general system of education, which would entirely vate are so common in the West Indies, that they have been described by every naturalist who has written any account of those islands.

It is often asserted by the transatlantic politicians, that this little colony deserves more attention from the mother-country than it receives; and it certainly possesses advantages of situation, to which we should not be long insensible ifit were once in the hands of an enemy. I was told by a celebrated friend of Washington, at New York, that they had formed a plan for its capture towards the conclusion of the American War, with the intention (as he expressed himself) of making it a nest of hornets for the annoyance of British trade in that part of the world.' And there is no doubt it lies so fairly in the track to the West Indies, that an enemy might with ease convert it into a very harassing impediment.

The plan of Bishop Berkeley for a college at Bermuda, where American savages might be converted an 1 educated, though concurred in by

remove the alternative in which the colonists are involved at present, of either sending their sons to England for instruction, or entrusting them to colleges in the States of America, where ideas by no means favourable to Great Britain are very sedulously inculcated.

The women of Bermuda, though not generally handsome, have an affectionate languor in their look and manner, which is always interesting. What the French imply by their epithet aimante seems very much the character of the young Bermudian girls-that predisposition to loving, which, without being awakened by any particu lar object, diffuses itself through the general manner in a tone of tenderness that never fails to fascinate. The men of the island, I confess, are not very civilised; and the old philosopher, who imagined that, after this life, men would be changed into mules, and women into turtle. doves, would find the metamorphosis in some degree anticipated at Bermuda,

Oh! say, do you thus, in the luminous hour
Of wine and of wit, when the heart is in flower
And shoots from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new!
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him,
Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair,
And would pine in Elysium, if friends were not there?

Last night, when we came from the calabash-tree,
When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free,
The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day
Put the magical springs of my fancy in play,
And oh-such a vision as haunted me then
I could slumber for ages to witness again!
The many I like, and the few I adore,

The friends, who were dear and beloved before,
But never till now so beloved and dear,
At the call of my fancy surrounded me here!
Soon, soon did the flattering spell of their smile
To a paradise brighten the blest little isle ;
Serener the wave, as they looked on it, flowed,
And warmer the rose, as they gathered it, glowed!
Not the valleys Heræan (though watered by rills
Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills,1
Where the song of the shepherd, primeval and wild,
Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child)
Could display such a bloom of delight, as was given
By the magic of love to this miniature Heaven!

Oh, magic of love! unembellished by you,
Has the garden a blush or the herbage a hue?
Or blooms there a prospect in nature or art,

Like the vista that shines through the eye to the heart?

Alas! that a vision so happy should fade !

That, when morning around me in brilliancy played,
The rose and the stream I had thought of at night

Should still be before me, unfadingly bright;

While the friends, who had seemed to hang over the stream,

And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream!

But see, through the harbour, in floating array,
The bark that must carry these pages away 2
Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind,
And will soon leave the bowers of Ariel behind!
What billows, what gales is she fated to prove,
Ere she sleep in the lea of the land that I love!
Yet pleasant the swell of those billows would be,
And the sound of those gales would be music to me!

1 Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first inventor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.

A ship, ready to sail for England.

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