I just had turned the classic page.

  And traced that happy period over,

When blest alike were youth and age,

And love inspired the wisest sage,

  And wisdom graced the tenderest lover.

Before I laid me down to sleep

  Awhile I from the lattice gazed

Upon that still and moonlight deep,

  With isles like floating gardens raised,

For Ariel there his sports to keep;

While, gliding 'twixt their leafy shores

The lone night-fisher plied his oars.

I felt,—so strongly fancy's power

Came o'er me in that witching hour,—

As if the whole bright scenery there

  Were lighted by a Grecian sky,

And I then breathed the blissful air

  That late had thrilled to Sappho's sigh.

Thus, waking, dreamt I,—and when Sleep

  Came o'er my sense, the dream went on;

Nor, through her curtain dim and deep,

  Hath ever lovelier vision shone.

I thought that, all enrapt, I strayed

Through that serene, luxurious shade,

Where Epicurus taught the Loves

  To polish virtue's native brightness,—

As pearls, we're told, that fondling doves

  Have played with, wear a smoother whiteness.[1]

'Twas one of those delicious nights

  So common in the climes of Greece,

When day withdraws but half its lights,

  And all is moonshine, balm, and peace.

And thou wert there, my own beloved,

And by thy side I fondly roved

Through many a temple's reverend gloom,

And many a bower's seductive bloom,

Where Beauty learned what Wisdom taught.

And sages sighed and lovers thought;

Where schoolmen conned no maxims stern,

  But all was formed to soothe or move,

To make the dullest love to learn,

  To make the coldest learn to love.

And now the fairy pathway seemed

  To lead us through enchanted ground,

Where all that bard has ever dreamed

  Of love or luxury bloomed around.

Oh! 'twas a bright, bewildering scene—

Along the alley's deepening green

Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers,

And scented and illumed the bowers,

Seemed, as to him, who darkling roves,

Amid the lone Hercynian groves,

Appear those countless birds of light,

That sparkle in the leaves at night,

And from their wings diffuse a ray

Along the traveller's weary way.

'Twas light of that mysterious kind.

  Through which the soul perchance may roam,

When it has left this world behind,

  And gone to seek its heavenly home.

And, Nea, thou wert by my side,

Through all this heavenward path my guide.

But, lo, as wandering thus we ranged

That upward path, the vision changed;

And now, methought, we stole along

  Through halls of more voluptuous glory

Than ever lived in Teian song,

  Or wantoned in Milesian story.[2]

And nymphs were there, whose very eyes

Seemed softened o'er with breath of sighs;

Whose every ringlet, as it wreathed,

A mute appeal to passion breathed.

Some flew, with amber cups, around,

  Pouring the flowery wines of Crete;

And, as they passed with youthful bound,

  The onyx shone beneath their feet.[3]

While others, waving arms of snow

  Entwined by snakes of burnished gold,[4]

And showing charms, as loth to show,

  Through many a thin, Tarentian fold,

Glided among the festal throng

Bearing rich urns of flowers along

Where roses lay, in languor breathing,

And the young beegrape, round them wreathing,

Hung on their blushes warm and meek,

Like curls upon a rosy cheek.

Oh, Nea! why did morning break

  The spell that thus divinely bound me?

Why did I wake? how could I wake

  With thee my own and heaven around me!

* * * * *

Well—peace to thy heart, though another's it be,

And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me!

To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves,

Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves,

And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet

Their allurements forgive and their splendor forget.

Farewell to Bermuda,[5] and long may the bloom

Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume;

May spring to eternity hallow the shade,

Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has strayed.

And thou—when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam

Through the lime-covered alley that leads to thy home,

Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done,

And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun,

I have led thee along, and have told by the way

What my heart all the night had been burning to say—

Oh! think of the past—give a sigh to those times,

And a blessing for me to that alley of limes.

* * * * *

If I were yonder wave, my dear,

  And thou the isle it clasps around,

I would not let a foot come near

  My land of bliss, my fairy ground.

If I were yonder couch of gold,

  And thou the pearl within it placed,

I would not let an eye behold

  The sacred gem my arms embraced.

If I were yonder orange-tree,

  And thou the blossom blooming there,

I would not yield a breath of thee

  To scent the most imploring air.

Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink,

  Give not the wave that odorous sigh,

Nor let its burning mirror drink

  The soft reflection of thine eye.

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,

  So pictured in the waters seem,

That I could gladly plunge to seek

  Thy image in the glassy stream.

Blest fate! at once my chilly grave

  And nuptial bed that stream might be;

I'll wed thee in its mimic wave.

  And die upon the shade of thee.

Behold the leafy mangrove, bending

  O'er the waters blue and bright,

Like Nea's silky lashes, lending

  Shadow to her eyes of light.

Oh, my beloved! where'er I turn,

  Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes:

In every star thy glances burn;

  Thy blush on every floweret lies.

Nor find I in creation aught

  Of bright or beautiful or rare,

Sweet to the sense of pure to thought,

  But thou art found reflected there.

[1] This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them awhile to be played with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Cardanus.

[2] The Milesiacs, or Milesian fables, had their origin in Miletus, a luxurious town of Ionia. Aristides was the most celebrated author of these licentious fictions.

[3] It appears that in very splendid mansions the floor or pavement was frequently of onyx.

[4] Bracelets of this shape were a favorite ornament among the women of antiquity.

[5] The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. I wonder it did not occur to some of those all-reading gentlemen that, possibly, the discoverer of this "island of hogs and devils" might have been no less a personage than the great John Bermudez, who, about the same period (the beginning of the sixteenth century), was sent Patriarch of the Latin church to Ethiopia, and has left us most wonderful stories of the Amazons and the Griffins which he encountered.—Travels of the Jesuits, vol. i.