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In blossoms of thought ever springing and new :
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 look'd on it, flow'd, And warmer the rose, as they gather'd it, glow'd : Not the valleys Heraen (though water'd by rills Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills, 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! unembellish'd 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 fades That, when morning around me in brilliancy play'd, The rose and the stream I had thought of at night Should still be before me, unfadingly bright; While the friends, who had seem'd 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, 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 lee of the land that i love 1 Yet pleasant the swell of those billows would be, And the sound of those gales would be music to me! Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew, Not the silvery lapse of the summer-eve dew, Were as sweet as the breeze, or as bright as the foam Of the wave, that would carry your wanderer home !
LPTING. Che con le lor bugie pajon divini. MAURO D'ARcANo. I do confess, in many a sigh My lips have breath'd you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nor yet had learn'd to stoop, with humbler care, 'rom grand to soft, from wonderful to fair! say were your towering hills, your boundless floods, four rich savannas and majestic woods, Where bards should meditate and heroes rove, \nd woman charm and man deserve her love! Dh! was a world so bright but born to grace ts own half-organiz'd, half-minded race Df weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast, Like vermin gender'd on the lion's crest? Were none but brutes to call that soil their home, Where none but demi-gods should dare to roam Dr worse, thou mighty world! oh! doubly worse, Did heaven design thy lordly land to nurse The motley dregs of every distant clime, Fach blast of anarchy, and taint of crime, Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere, n full malignity to rankle here? 3ut hush!—observe that little mount of pines, Where the breeze murmurs and the fire-fly shines, There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, The sculptur'd image of that veteran chief, Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name, And stept o'er prostrate loyalty to fame; Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train Jast off their monarch that their mob might reign!
How shall we rank thee upon glory's page? Thou more than soldier and just less than sage! Too form'd for peace to act a conqueror's part, Too train’d in camps to learn a statesman's art, Nature design'd thee for a hero's mould, But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold! While warmer souls command, nay make their fate, Thy fate made thee and forc'd thee to be great. Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds Her brightest halo round the weakest heads, Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before, Proud to be useful, scorning to be more; Less prompt at glory's than at duty's claim, Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim; All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, Far less than all thou hast forborne to be!
Now turn thine eye where faint the moonlight falls On yonder dome—and in those princely halls, If thou can'st hate, as, oh! that soul must hate, Which loves the virtuous and reveres the great, If thou canst loath and execrate with me That Gallic garbage of philosophy, That nauseous slaver of those frantic times, With which false liberty dilutes her crimes! If thou hast got, within thy free-born breast, One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest, With honest scorn for that inglorious soul, Which creeps and winds beneath a mob's controul, Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod, And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god! There, in those walls---but, burning tongue, forbear! Rank must be reverenc'd, even the rank that's there: So here I pause---and now, my Hume! we part; But oh! full oft, in magic dreams of heart,
A much more independent trade—
All, that can well be understood
But-to your work's immortal credit—
(While Y—rm—th's sketching out a plan
You, therefore, have no time to waste— So, send your System.— Your's, in hist,
Before I send this scrawl away, I seize a moment, just to say, There's some parts of the Turkish system So vulgar, 'twere as well you misd'em. For instance—in Seraglio matters— Your Turk, whom girlish fondness flation, Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!) With tittering, red-cheek'd things from soBut here (as in that fairy land, Where Love and Age went hand in hand; Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey, And Grandams were worth any money) Our Sultan has much riper notions— So, let your list of she-promotions Include those only, plump and sage, Who've reach'd the regulation-age; That is—as near as one can fix From Peerage dates—full fifty-six.
akesa block that one's company cannot getthrough; nd a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small, as no room for such cumbersome love-work at all!— \propos, though, of love-work—you've heard it, I hope, hat Napoleon's old Mother's to marry the PopeWhat a comical pair!)—but to stick to my Rout, Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out. there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arriv'd so Plenipo Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wiv'd? to Russian, whose dissonant consonant name Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?
remember the time, three or four winters back, When-provided their wigs were but decently black– \ few Patriot monsters, from Spain, were a sight That would people one's house for one, night after night. But—whether the Ministers pair'd them too much– And you know how they spoil whatsoever they touch) [town) Or, whether Lord G–rge (the young man about Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down— One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage, And the only stray Patriot seen for an age Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools) As old Mrs. V---n's or Lord L–v—rp—l's!
But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschit-
Aurevoir, my sweetgirl—I must leave you in haste— Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.
By the bye, have you found any friend that can
FROM ABDALLAh, IN LoNDoN, to MoHAssàN, IN Ispahan.
Whilst thou, Mohassan (happy thou!)
Of this short-coated population—
Yet, though they thus their knee-pans fetter,
Yet—though we’ve tried for centuries back—
Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious,
As to the rest, they're free to do
The same mild views of Toleration Inspire, I find, this button'd nation, Whose Papists (full as giv'n to rogue, And only Sunnites with a brogue) Fare just as well, with all their fuss, As rascal Sunnites do with us.
Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore! It takes to chalk a ball-room floorThou know'st the time too, well-a-day! It takes to dance that chalk away. The Ball-room opens—far and nigh Comets and suns beneath us lie; O'er snowy moons and stars we walk, And the floor seems a sky of chalk! But soon shall fade the bright deceit, When many a maid, with busy feet That sparkle in the Lustre's ray, O'er the white path shall bound and play Like Nymphs along the Milky Way"At every step a star is fled, And suns grow dim beneath their tread! So passeth life—(thus Sc—tt would who And spinsters read him with delightHours are not feet, yet hours trip on, Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!
This festive Fête, in fact will be The former Fête's fac-simile; The same long Masquerade of Rooms, Trick'd in such different, quaint so (These, P-rt—r, are thy glorious works!) You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks. Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice. Had clubb'd to raise a Pic-Nic Palace; And each to make the oglio ple” Had sent a State-Room as a presentThe same fauteuils and girando" The same gold Asses, pretty souls! That, in this rich and classic dom” Appear so perfectly at home! i. same j #: 'mongst the dishes, But not—ah! not the same de” floor Late hours and claret kill'd the ** so, 'stead of silver and of gold” (It being rather hard to raise Fish of that specie now-a-day) h's wish Some Sprats have been, by Y-rm—th's"