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 set 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.
Gently we stole, before the languid wind,
Through plaintain shades, that like an awning
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 sheds 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 allusion 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
Lighted me back to all the glorious days
Of Attic genius; and I seem'd to gaze
On marble, from the rich Pentelic mount,
Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount.
Sweet airy being!* who, in brighter hours,
Lived on the perfume of these honey'd bowers,
In velvet buds, at evening loved to lie,
And win with music every rose's sigh!
Though weak the magic of my humble strain
To charm your spirit from its orb again,
Yet, oh! for her, beneath whose smile I sing,
For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing
Were dimm'd or ruffled by a wintry sky,
Could smooth its feather and relume its dye),
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 me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me well and warmly, but I never could turn his house into a Grecian temple again.
* Ariel. Among the many charms which Bermuda has for a poetic eye, we cannot for an instant forget that it is the scene of SHAKESPEARE'S Tempest, and that here he conjured up the "delicate Ariel," who alone is worth the whole heaven of ancient mythology.
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