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opened upon me, my first feeling was that of disappointment. It would have been impossible, indeed, for anything real to have come up to the vision I had in these few seconds formed of it, and these awful scriptural words, “The fountains of the great deep were broken up,' can alone give any notion of the vague wonders for which I was prepared.

“But in spite of the start thus got by imagination the triumph of reality was, in the end, but the greater; for the gradual glory of the scene that opened upon me, soon took possession of my wholo mind; presenting from day to day, some new beauty or wonder, and, like all that is most sublime in nature or art, awakened sad as well as elevated thoughts. I retain in my memory but one other dream for such do events so long past appearwhich can in any respect be associated with the grand vision I have just been describing; and however different the nature of their appeals to the imagination, I should find it difficult to say on which occasion I felt most deeply affected; when looking on the Falls of Niagara, or when standing by moonlight among the ruins of the Colosseum.”

A SCENE IN BERMUDA.

The morn was lovely, every wave was still,
When the first perfume of the cedar-hill
Sweetly awaked us, and with smiling charms,
The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms.
Gently we stole before the languid wind,
Through plaintain shades, that like an awning twined
And kissed on either side the wanton sails
Breathing our welcome to those vernal vales ;

While, far reflected o'er the wave serene,
Each wooded island shed so soft a green,
That the enamoured 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
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.

THE SONG OF THE INDIAN SPIRIT.

(Written on the banks of the St. Lawrence.)

From the clime of sacred doves,
Where the blessed Indian roves
Through the air on wing, as white
As the spirit-stones of light,
Which the eye of morning counts
On the Appallachian mounts !
Hither oft my flight I take
Over Huron's lucid lake,
Where the waves, as clear as dew,
Sleep beneath the light canoe,
Which, reflected, floating there,
Looks as if it hung in air!
Then, when I have stray'd awhile
Through the Manataulin isle ;

Breathing all its holy bloom,
Swift upon the purple plume
Of my Wakon-bird I fly,
Where beneath a burning sky,
O'er the bed of Erie's lake
Slumbers many a water-snake,
Basking in the web of leaves
Which the weeping lily weaves !

Then I chase the flowret-king
Through his bloomy wild of spring;
See him now while diamond hues
Soft his neck and wings suffuse,
In the leafy chalice sink,
Thirsting for his balmy drink
Now behold him, all on fire,
Lovely in his looks of ire,
Breaking every infant stem,
Scattering every velvet gem,
Where his little tyrant lip
Had not found enough to sip.

Then my playful hand I steep,
Where the gold-thread loves to creep,
Cull from thence a tangled wreath,
Words of magic round it breathe,
And the sunny chaplet spread
O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head;
Till, with dreams of honey blest,
Haunted in his downy nest
By the garden's fairest spells,
Dewy buds and fragrant bells,
Fancy all his soul embowers
In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers !

Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes
Melt along the ruffled lakes ;
When the gray moose sheds his horns;
When the track of evening warns
Weary hunter of the way
To the wigwam's cheering ray,

Then aloft through freezing air,
With the snow-bird soft and fair
As the fleece that heaven flings
O’er his little pearly wings,
Light above the rocks I play,
Where Niagara's starry spray,
Frozen on the cliff appears,
Like a giant's startling tears !
There, amid the island-sedge,
Just upon the cataract's edge,
Where the foot of living man
Never trod since time began;
Lone, I sit, at close of day,
While, beneath the golden ray,
Icy columns gleam below,
Feather'd round with falling snow
And an arch of glory springs,
Brilliant as the chain of rings
Round the neck of virgins hung:
Virgins who have wander'd young
(V'er the waters of the West,
To the land where spirits rest!

PORTION OF A POEM ADDRESSED TO CAPTAIN

DOUGLAS Of The Boston," on returning with him from America, Think then how happy I follow thee now, When hope smooths the billowy path of our prow, And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind Takes me nearer the home where my heart is enshrin'd; Where the smile of a father shall meet me again, And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain; Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart, And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part !

STANZAS.*

A beam of tranquillity smil'd in the west,

The storms of the morning pursued us no more; And the wave, while it welcom’d the moment of rest,

Still heav'd, as remembering ills that were o'er!

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,

Its passions were sleeping as mute as the dead, And the spirit becalm’d but remembered their pow'r,

As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.

I thought of the days, when to pleasure alone

My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known

Was pity for those who were wiser than I !

I felt how the pure, intellectual fire

In luxury loses its heavenly ray;
How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire,

The pearl of the soul may be melted away!

And I pray'd of that Spirit who lighted the flame,

That pleasure no more might its purity dim; And that sullied but little, or brightly the same,

I might give back the gem I had borrow'd from him.

The thought was ecstatic! I felt as if heaven

Had already the wreath of eternity shown; As if, passion all chastened and error forgiven,

My heart had begun to be purely its own!

I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky,

Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more. “Oh! thus,” I exclaimed, “can a heavenly eye

Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before !"

* These beautiful lines were published in the same volume with the Poems on America.

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