Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore;

Far he follow'd the meteor spark,

The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat return'd no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp
This lover and maid so true

Are seen at the hour of midnight damp,
To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp,

And paddle their white canoe!

EPISTLE III.

ΤΟ

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 limpid current leads ;*
Enamour'd catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;
Or, lingering 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;

Her Ladyship, 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.

Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the tablet that creative eye,
And let its splendor, 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;
Still, radiant eye! upon the tablet dwell;
Still, rosy finger! weave your pictur'd spells
And, while I sing the animated smiles

Of fairy nature in the 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 plac'd For happy spirits in th' Atlantic waste ?*

* M. Gebelin says, in his Monde Primitif, "Lorsque Strabon crût que les anciens theologiens et poëtes placoient les champs elysées dans les Isles de l'Ocean Atlantique, il n'entendit rien a leur doctrine." M. Gebelin's supposition, I have no doubt, is the

There, as eternal gales, with fragrance warm, Breath'd from elysium through each shadowy form, 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,

1

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 awak'd us, and with smiling charms,
The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms.*

more correct; but that of Strabo is, in the present instance, mast to my purpose.

* Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbour of St. George's. 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.

Gently we stole, before the languid wind,
Through plantain shades, that like an awning twin'd,
And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails,
Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales;
While, far reflected o'er the wave serene,
Each wooded island shed so soft a green,
That the enamour'd keel, with whispering play,
Through liquid herbage seem'd to steal its way!
Never did weary bark more sweetly glide,
Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide!

Along the margin many a brilliant dome,
White as the palace of a Lapland gnome,
Brighten❜d the wave; in every myrtle grove
Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love,
Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade;
And, while the foliage interposing play'd,
Wreathing the structure into various grace,
Fancy would love, in many a form, to trace
The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,*
And dream of temples, till her kindling torch

* This is an illusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. In the short but beautiful twilight of their Spring evenings, the white cottages scattered over the islands, and but partially seen through the trees that surround them, assume often the appearance of little Grecian temples, and fancy may embellish the poor fisherman's hut with columns which the pencil of Claude might imitate. I had one favourite object of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by asking