1

himself upon they merit.

the degree of attention or confidence which

With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the following pages, I know not in what manner to apologize to the public for intruding upon their notice such a mass of unconnected trifles, such a world of epicurean atoms, as I have here brought in conflict together. To say that I have been tempted by the liberal offers of my bookseller is an excuse which can hope for but little indulgence from the critic; yet I own that, without this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for such imperfect productions: they should be shown but to the eye of friendship, in that dim light of privacy, which is as favourable to poetical as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for faults, while it enhances every charm which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle occupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read such trifles, and I sincerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them.

EPISTLE I.

TO

LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

Aboard the Phaeton frigate,* off the Azores, by Moonlight.

WEET Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,†
By any spell my hand could dare

To make thy disk its ample page,

And write my thoughts, my wishes there,
How many a friend, whose careless eye
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet
The recollection, kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,
The promise, never to forget,
And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-lov'd, distant friend!

*From Captain Cockburn, who commanded this "Phaeton, that whipp'd me to the West," I received such kind attentions as I must ever remember with gratitude.

† Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the Moon by the means of a magic mirror. See Bayle, Art. Pythag.

B

Oh STRANGFORD! when we parted last,

I little thought the times were past,
For ever past, when brilliant joy
Was all my vacant heart's employ:
When, fresh from mirth to mirth again,
We thought the rapid hours too few,
Our only use for knowledge then

To turn to rapture all we knew!
Delicious days of whim and soul!

When, mingling lore and laugh together, We lean'd the book on Pleasure's bowl, And turn'd the leaf with Folly's feather! I little thought that all were fled, That, ere the Summer's bloom was shed, My eye should see the sail unfurl'd That wafts me to the Western World!

But, oh! 'twas time-in youth, awhile,
To cool the season's burning smile,
The heart may let its wanton wing
Repose in Pleasure's soft'ning spring;
But, if it wait for Winter's breeze,
The spring will dry, the heart will freeze!
And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,

Oh! she awak'd such happy dreams,
And gave my soul such tempting scope

For all its dearest, fondest schemes,

That not Verona's child of song,
When flying from the Phrygian shore,
With lighter hopes could bound along,
Or pant to be a wanderer more! *

Even now delusive Hope will steal
Amid the dark regrets I feel,
Soothing, as yonder placid beam

Pursues the murmurers of the deep,
And lights them with consoling gleam
And smiles them into tranquil sleep!
Oh! such a blessed night as this,

I often think, if friends were near, How we should feel, and gaze with bliss Upon the moon-bright scenery here!

The sea is like a silvery lake,

And, o'er its calm the vessel glides Gently, as if it fear'd to wake

The slumber of the silent tides !

The only envious cloud that lowers,

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,†

Alluding to these animated lines in the 44th Carmen of this Poet:

Jam mens prætrepidans avet vagari,
Jam læti studio pedes vigescunt!

† Pico is a very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the island derives its name.

Peak of Teneriffe.

It is said by some to be as high as the

Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers,
And scowling at this heav'n of light,
Exults to see the infant storm

Cling darkly round his giant form!

Now, could I range those verdant isles,
Invisible, at this soft hour,

And see the looks, the melting smiles,
That brighten many an orange bower;
And could I lift each pious veil,

And see the blushing cheek it shades,
Oh! I should have full many a tale,
To tell of young Azorian maids.*

Dear STRANGFORD! at this hour, perhaps,
Some faithful lover (not so blest
As they, who in their ladies' laps
May cradle every wish to rest,)
Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul,
Those madrigals, of breath divine,
Which Camoens' harp from rapture stole
And gave, all glowing warm, to thine! †
Oh! could the lover learn from thee,

And breathe them with thy graceful tone,

* I believe it is Guthrie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores are much addicted to gallantry. This is an assertion in which even Guthrie may be credited.

These islands belong to the Portugueze.