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THE DREAMER. 
 
THE DEEAMER, 
 
 A POEM, IN THREE CANTOS, 
 
 AND 
 
 AN INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE UPON THE 
 
 ISLAND OF MADEIRA. 
 
 BY 
 
 OSSIAN MACPHERSON, 
 
 AUTHOR OP ** A bard's REVERIE," AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 * Poesy! thou sweet'st content, 
 That ever heaven to mortal's lent ; 
 Tho' they as a trifle leave thee, 
 Whose dull thought cannot conceive thee. 
 The' thou he to them a scorn. 
 That to nought hut earth are horn, 
 Let my life no longer he 
 Than I am in love with thee ; 
 Tho' our wise ones call thee madness, 
 Let me never taste of gladness 
 If I love not thy maddest fits 
 More than all their greatest wits. 
 
 George Wither — 1615.' 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed for the Author, 
 54, UPPER EBURY STREET, PIMLICO. 
 
 MDCCCXLVIII. 
 
Mill 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 To GEORGE FORBES, Esq. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 The following Poems I dedicate to 
 you as the only means of showing my grati- 
 tude for the numerous proofs of unostenta- 
 tious kindness I have experienced from 
 yourself, and other members of your worthy 
 family. 
 
 A few years back, when I published my 
 juvenile productions, I was so diffident of 
 success, that in inscribing that volume to 
 you, I dared not do more than use your ini- 
 tials, in order to spare you any mortification 
 in the event of my condemnation as a poet. 
 
 342 
 
VUl DEDICATION. 
 
 The pleasing meed of praise has, however, 
 since then been accorded me, both publicly 
 and privately. 1 have, moreover, grown more 
 confident in my own powers, and I will 
 be egotist enough to express my opinion, 
 that the present work has considerable 
 merit ; and that it may be perused with a 
 little interest long after Patron and Poet 
 are both laid beneath the "dark grey stone." 
 
 4 
 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 With the greatest respect, 
 
 Your very humble 
 
 and ever obliged Servant, 
 
 OssiAN Macpherson. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Whoever sits down to peruse the following 
 poem, underthe idea that there is anything 
 of ^a plot in it, will please to take notice, that 
 nothing of the kind will be found. It is 
 entirely made up of the mejancholy pencil- 
 lings of an invalid hypochondriac ; who, 
 during the lingering hours of sickness and 
 suffering, in a foreign land, (to which, by 
 the kindness of friends, he was enabled to 
 resort, to enjoy the advantages of a warmer 
 climate,) sought and obtained relief, by dres- 
 sing the feelings of many an anxious moment 
 in rhyme : and of such a nature is the compo- 
 sition in question, that if I were to be called 
 upon to explain its character, I could not do 
 so. Its very name was suggested by a 
 
 B 
 
11 PREFACE. 
 
 troubled vision, long before I had any 
 notion of entering upon such a work. 
 
 Half a dozen words to the critic, who, in 
 the profundity of his wisdom, may sit in 
 judgment upon the merits of " The 
 Dreamer." 
 
 I seek not to disarm criticism, by stating 
 that the pubUcation of this volume suggested 
 itself as a means of exiling its author to a 
 sunnier clime ; far away from the cold, foggy 
 atmosphere of Britain ; continued ill health 
 and much suffering in prospective, having 
 blighted fairer prospects than generally fall 
 to the share of the struggling poet. No ! in 
 my case, I wish the reviewer to be just 
 before he is generous. If the poem has any 
 merit — the acknowledgment of such merit 
 by the voice of impartial criticism, will fall 
 most sweetly upon my ears : if it has none, 
 its condemnation will be an act of justice 
 both to the public and the author. 
 
 Poeta non jit sed nascitur^ is an apoph- 
 thegm — tlie truth of which is questionable 
 
PREFACE. iii 
 
 Although the sweetest of all poets are those 
 who have been suckled with the milk of inspi- 
 ration ; yet, I think that the history of poetry 
 records numerous instances of individuals 
 suddenly changed into poets by circum- 
 stances. The time has not yet arrived for 
 me to hazard an opinion as to whether my 
 temperament was formed by birth or cir- 
 cumstances. One thing, however, I can 
 truly assert, viz : — that certain events which 
 have occurred during the brief but very 
 chequered portion of my existence which 
 has passed away, have created feelings, 
 poetical feelings, of a far deeper and holier 
 nature, than I should have felt if my path 
 had been less rugged. My name, too, has 
 had some share in awakening poetical re- 
 flections; but, unfortunately for me, that 
 name will always recall so much that is 
 grand and beautiful in poetry, that I stand 
 no chance of ever attaining a high rank 
 among the bards of my native land. 
 " What's in a name ?" An hour or two of 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 intense reflection will ensure a conviction of 
 the deep importance of the question. 
 
 To my Subscribers, one and all, I here 
 tender my most sincere thanks. 
 
 I have now done. By the dim blaze of 
 my expiring lamp I have put the finishing 
 touch to the task I set myself. And now I 
 am gazing upon the deceptive flare, which 
 alternately bursts into brilliancy, and then 
 dies into darkness, by fitful starts — a faith- 
 fiil emblem of my own declining existence. 
 Like this struggling and fast-wasting flame, 
 my light of vitality is trembling in the 
 socket ; and soon, very soon, will go entirely 
 out. The soul, like a disappointed tenant, 
 anxious to get rid of a fruitless and barren 
 possession, longs for a separation from a frail 
 body which hangs like a drag upon it. It 
 is now completely out; its blackened re- 
 mains, Hke the mortal remains of humanity, 
 emitting a foul and filthy odour. 
 
 Farewell, then, awhile, to that Muse 
 which is, and has ever been the object of my 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 most devoted adoration, who has had the 
 power to comfort me in all the troubles of 
 the past, and who consoles me as I endea- 
 vour to penetrate into the darkness of the 
 future — If it should please the Almighty to 
 break the harp-strings, and destroy the min- 
 strel, I bow, without repining, to His will. 
 If, on the contrary, His goodness should 
 permit a little return of health to this weak 
 frame, I may be again tempted to strike the 
 harp, and " raise the voice of song," in more 
 joyful strains than has hitherto been my 
 wont. — Spero meliora. 
 
 b3 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 To JOSEPHUS GOODHAUT, Esq. 
 in london. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 It is now Christmas day — I am 
 alone — I have just arisen from a sick bed to 
 enjoy a taste of the delicious breeze which 
 is pouring in at my opened window, bringing 
 with it the odoriferous perfumes which it 
 has stolen from the rich groves of orange, 
 lemon, and coffee trees, it has kissed upon 
 its journey ; and to feast my eyes upon the 
 green, luxuriant vegetation, and the calm, 
 sparkling ocean which is now displayed so 
 beautifully before me. 
 
8 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 Your letter of the third instant, has just 
 come to hand ; and I deeply regret to 
 gather from its contents, that you will shortly 
 be compelled to seek a refuge in this island, 
 upon the score of ill-health. 
 
 I have just taken up my pen to reply to 
 yours. When you insist upon my writing 
 something concerning the island of Madeira, 
 you have imposed a task upon me, in re- 
 ference to which, I can only observe, that 
 so far as my humble abilities extend, labor 
 ipse voluptat; and, as you will not have left 
 Englandbefore Ireturn thither (Deo volentej^ 
 I shall not close this epistle until I once 
 more set foot upon my native soil, when I 
 hope to have the pleasure of delivering it 
 to you personally. 
 
 But, in the first instance, as you are not 
 aware of the circumstances under which I 
 quitted my native land, I shall briefly put 
 you in possession of them. 
 
 I have been, as you know, a sufferer, 
 for some years past, from internal disease ; 
 and, during the winter of 1846 — 7, my 
 health became so much worse, that I gave 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 9 
 
 up all hope of recovery ; and began to pre- 
 pare for that fate, which, sooner or later, 
 overtakes every thing mortal. 
 
 The principal uneasiness I felt from my 
 sad condition, arose from the consciousness 
 that my salary, as a clerk in the establish- 
 ment of Messrs. and Co., was still 
 
 regularly paid, although I was unable to 
 make any return for such kindness; and 
 each day increased the feeling, that I was 
 becoming burdensome to them. How ill 
 founded my fears were, the sequel will shew. 
 
 First, however, I may remark, that I have 
 invariably found it to be the case during my 
 life, that when despondency in its bitterest 
 form has overtaken me, when the prospect 
 before me appeared shrouded in a gloom too 
 thick to penetrate, and when its darkness 
 was horrible to gaze upon, that an appeal 
 to the goodness of an Almighty Father has 
 never been made in vain. The present oc- 
 casion was no exception. 
 
 One evening, when, oppressed with me- 
 lancholy, I was ruminating upon the past, 
 and the future, I received a note from 
 
10 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 , the head of the firm, a gen- 
 tleman who had repeatedly proved a kind 
 friend and liberal benefactor, requesting me, 
 when my strength allowed, to meet him at 
 the office in Street. 
 
 I will pass over what happened upon 
 that occasion. Suffice it to say, that, thanks 
 to the liberality of the worthy sire of my 
 worthy benefactor, coupled with the gene- 
 rosity of the " House," I was enabled to. 
 secure a passage to Madeira in one of the 
 West India steam packets. 
 
 The morning of the 18th January, 1848, 
 was one of the coldest I can remember. 
 The very air appeared as if composed of fro- 
 zen mist, it was so thick and motionless ; the 
 roads were completely glazed ; and I fancied 
 I heard them crackling beneath the wheels 
 of the vehicle which was conveying me to 
 the railway — the first stage of my journey 
 into exile. 
 
 Arrived safely in Southampton, a small 
 steamer conveys passengers to the giant 
 vessel which is to be their home for days 
 on the great deep. 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. H 
 
 The sensation I experienced upon first 
 stepping upon deck, I can hardly describe ; 
 it was as if I had parted from a dear loved 
 wife, and was proceeding to execution. 
 
 Once on board, I speedily sought .the soli- 
 tude of my cabin ; and there allowed my 
 pent-up feelings to have full vent, and 
 experienced that relief which copious floods 
 of tears ever afford to the sorrowing mind. 
 
 There is no melancholy — at least so I 
 imagine — like that which is induced by the 
 knowledge that one is about leaving all that 
 is dear ; the parental fireside ; the friends of 
 the heart, and even fatherland itself; to 
 seek in a foreign land, and perhaps vainly 
 seek, to prolong a blighted existence. The 
 knowledge that it is a last resource, and 
 that, perhaps, in a very brief period, a distant 
 grave will be opened for the reception of the 
 worn-out frame, to which no friend will ever 
 make a pilgrimage, and on where the eye 
 of affection will never drop a tear ; these, 
 I say, awaken reflections which will never 
 be forgotten by those who have once expe- 
 rienced them. 
 
12 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 Life on board a West India Steam Ship, 
 is by no means monotonous or wearisome. 
 There were about ninety passengers of both 
 sexes in the same vessel with me. During 
 the first two days, I remained in seclusion 
 in my own cabin ; but when we were fairly 
 in the Bay of Biscay, and the sun, as we got 
 south, became more powerful, the bracing 
 air and the increasing warmth had such an 
 excellent effect both upon my health and 
 spirits, that I ventured upon deck, where I 
 soon foimd enough to interest and amuse 
 me. 
 
 And here, Josephus, as you have never 
 been to sea, allow me to offer a word of 
 advice regarding sea-sickness, and the ma- 
 nagement of your sea-legs. 
 
 My experience in sea-sickness suggests 
 the following mode of treatment. 
 
 If you feel much headache and nausea, do 
 not lie down, as I have seen many do, but 
 take a glass of sea-water, which will imme- 
 diately relieve the stomach. Keep walking 
 about as well as you can, but do not attempt 
 to stop the vomiting till you feel well assured 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 13 
 
 that the inside is well cleared out, when 
 get a glass of brandy, and sip it till it is all 
 gone : then lie down in a horizontal position, 
 sleep for an hour or two, and you will awake 
 refreshed, with a good appetite, which you 
 should gratify as soon as possible, with ani- 
 mal food. 
 
 In getting your sea-legs, the following 
 hints may be useful. 
 
 You will do well before you attempt to 
 promenade on deck, to watch the motions 
 of the sailors ; the mode in which they keep 
 upright when the deck is at an angle of 
 forty-five degrees. The proper mode of 
 walking at sea, wiU be obvious by attending 
 to this. The step should be short, and as 
 elastic as possible. The swaying of the 
 arms should be regulated by the motion of 
 the ship ; above all, never wear high-heeled 
 boots. 
 
 I found many pleasant companions on 
 board, from whom I parted with regret at 
 the end of the voyage : but there was one in 
 particular, who afforded much amusement to 
 the whole company. This was a young 
 
14 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 Scotch gentleman, who occupied the same 
 cabin with me. Poor fellow, he was dread- 
 fully sea-sick during the whole passage, and 
 never rose from his berth but once, when 
 after pirouetting on deck for a short time in 
 the most extraordinary manner, he retired 
 below to lunch in the saloon, where he 
 seated himself in the Captain's chair at the 
 head of the table, and called for a quart 
 bottle of ale. Presently, the attention of the 
 company was arrested by a singular gurgling 
 noise in the direction in which he was seated. 
 I happened to go below at that moment and 
 there found him, unable to rise. The ale 
 was fermenting in his stomach ; and he was 
 eructating most awfaUy. Presently he turn- 
 ed deadly pale — his head dropped upon the 
 table, and, in another instant, all the Kquor 
 he had imbibed was running about the 
 floor. * * * "My dear Sair," said he 
 to me, "will ye assust me to my bairth, 
 jist?" 
 
 I had to repeat to him daily, from me- 
 mory, the bill of fare for the next dinner. 
 One day I was enumerating the various items 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 15 
 
 of gastronomy. " Roast beef; roast mutton ; 
 boiled beef; roast pork; boiled tripe — " 
 Here he started up in bed, his eyes spark- 
 ling with pleasure, and clapping me on the 
 shoulder, he screamed out : " Man ! stay a 
 buttie ! dud ye say tripe V 
 
 " Boiled tripe and onions." 
 
 " Man, ye'll just call the Steward !" 
 
 " Steward !" 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 "Oh! ye'll be sure to breng me some 
 tripe and inyans to my denner; ye'll be 
 sure and no forget ; " and he fell back 
 exhausted with the glorious prospective; 
 and I left him murmuring, beneath the 
 bed-clothes, " Man, tripe and inyans ! tripe 
 and inyans !" 
 
 Upon another occasion, I went into my 
 cabin to perform my ablutions, previous to 
 dinner, and found him sitting in bed with 
 a bottle of whiskey in his hand — " Well, 
 countryman," said I, " how are you now ? " 
 " Man !" replied he, " Man ! I'm fou ! clean 
 drunk, fou's a fuddler — anither glass, an' I 
 wad hae knocket the steward doun ! " He 
 
16 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 had adopted this singular mode to relieve 
 his sickness. 
 
 xigain, when I had retired below, upon a 
 similar occasion, and was going to change 
 my boots, — " Man," said he, " ye'el tak 
 care jist — ye'el no pit on ye'er boots tell 
 ye've lookit in them, for I've been seek ! " 
 &c., &c. But the whole of his sayings and 
 doings, which I had to retail daily at the 
 dinner table, would fill a volume. 
 
 The table on board the West India pac- 
 ket, is supplied to profusion ; but you have 
 to pay for wines, &c., extra, which, however, 
 are not dear, as you get them at the bonded 
 price. You will do well to secure a corner 
 at one of the cross tables ; as you have then 
 a leg to steady yourself vdth. 
 
 Verily, friend Josephus, if laughter be 
 good for digestion ; you will have plenty of 
 it at sea. Dinner is one piece of fun from 
 beginning to end. Imagine ninety or a 
 hundred people sitting down to that meal 
 in a vessel rolling like a tar-barrel in a fit : 
 you enquire for a " very little bit" of that 
 very fine looking boiled beef, and receive, in 
 
introduOtory epistle. 17 
 
 the most unceremonious manner, the whole 
 round, gravy and all, in your lap. You are 
 taking wine with a lady ; e'er she can put 
 the glass to her lips, she receives the con- 
 tents of a sauce boat in her lap. Every 
 individual at table is subjected to this treat- 
 ment, the sea respecting neither rank nor 
 sex. Sometimes a grand catastrophe takes 
 place — when the whole saloon is thrown 
 upon its beam ends ; and then you behold, 
 involved in one mighty overthrow, puddings 
 and passengers, silk dresses and white waist- 
 coats — the scene enlivened by the groans of 
 old ladies, and the shrieking of children; 
 glasses, platters, knives, and forks, all per- 
 forming their part in the general smash; 
 everybody calling for the steward, and no 
 steward to be found ; altogether conveying 
 to the imagination a pretty accurate notion 
 of " confusion worse confounded." 
 
 Chess, cards, and conversation, form the 
 staple amusements after tea ; at nine o'clock 
 a glass of lemonade ; bed at ten, when all 
 the lights are put out. 
 
 It was about six o'clock in the morning 
 c3 
 
18 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 when we first got sight of the land. The 
 view was any thing but pleasing. A dense 
 cloud of mist hung over the mountains ; 
 and, with the exception of here and there 
 a few patches of dark green pines, all ap- 
 peared bleak, barren, and uncultivated. 
 You behold nothing in the shape of beach ; 
 tall perpendicular cliffs, descending to an 
 immense depth in the ocean ; fantastically 
 shaped rocks; with, at intervals, a deep, 
 dark cavern, in which the wind and sea 
 together wail most mournfully. These are 
 all that meet the eye at the first approach 
 to Madeira. The vessel, however, still keeps 
 on her course towards the south. 
 
 Cape Garajao, or the Brazen Head, (one 
 of the most singular basaltic promontories 
 in the world,) is passed; and aU at once 
 there bursts upon the astonished sight, one 
 of the most magnificent and most ravishing 
 pictures ever unfolded before human eyes — 
 all appears enchantment. 
 
 I beheld it in a happy moment — the sun 
 had just fully appeared above the horizon, 
 and there was not one cloud in the heaven ; 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 19 
 
 the day (January 30th) was as fine and warm 
 as the finest summer day I ever beheld in 
 England ; the sea was motionless, and the 
 sunbeams that spread over it, gave it the 
 appearance of a " burnished sheet of living 
 gold." 
 
 The town of Funchal, with its clean 
 white houses, rising gradually from the 
 water's edge; the mountains in the back- 
 ground, with crowns of snow upon their 
 summits; the Quintas, or country houses, 
 of which nearly every merchant in the 
 place has one or two, scattered about among 
 the hills like fairy palaces ; such rich, green, 
 blooming vegetation; with the landscape 
 altogether, at once terrible and grand: 
 these quickly dispelled the melancholy 
 which had began to steal over me at the 
 thoughts of being exile^d to such a place. 
 
 What information I have to communicate 
 to you concerning this little paradise, will 
 be of a very general and gossiping nature ; 
 the limits of a letter not allowing me to 
 enter very deeply upon the subject. 
 
 The island of Madeira is situated in 32° 
 
20 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 * 
 
 37'' North latitude, and 5° West longitude. 
 Its distance from Southampton is about 
 1300 miles. 
 
 The circumference of the island is about 
 120 miles ; the length from East to West, 
 45 miles ; and the breadth, from North to 
 South, about 11 miles; the highest point 
 is Pico Ruivo, which is about 6,000 feet 
 above the level of the sea, and is composed 
 of a strata of pumice scoria. 
 
 The soil consists of soft pumice stone, 
 clay, sand, marie, dark red earth without 
 pumice, blue stone, pedra viva, like whin- 
 stone, and real lava. The island bears every 
 mark of having been angrily thrown up 
 during some awfiil volcanic convulsion. 
 
 The discovery of the island is said to have 
 taken place, under the following romantic 
 circumstances : — Robert a Machim, an En- 
 glish nobleman, having become desperately 
 enamoured of a very beautiful country- 
 woman, Anne d'Arfet by name ; and having 
 discovered that his love was acceptable to 
 the lady, but quite the reverse to her friends, 
 who expressed their determination to break 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 21 
 
 oiF the connexion, secretly carried her on 
 board a vessel lying in the river Severn, 
 intending to land in France, there to be 
 united in the bonds of matrimony. This 
 was during the reign of our Edward the 
 Third ; France being then at war with 
 England. A Violent storm drove them from 
 Bristol; and, after being tossed about for 
 many days by the tempest, they discovered 
 land. Having disembarked to procure re- 
 freshments, they were compelled to remain 
 by the return of the storm, which increased 
 to such an extent, that they had the mortifi- 
 cation of beholding their little vessel 
 foimder before their eyes. Upon the sixth 
 day after their landing, the lady died fr^om 
 fatigue ; the broken-hearted Robert a 
 Machim following her to the grave a few 
 days after. His followers left the island in 
 the hollow trunk of a tree, and reached 
 Barbary in safety, where they were imme- 
 diately seized and carried prisoners to 
 Morocco. Here, while beguiling the hours 
 of captivity by conversing together upon 
 their past misfortunes, their story awakened 
 
22 INTKODUCTOKY EPISTLE. 
 
 the curiosity of another individual. This 
 was a fellow prisoner, Toa de Amores, a 
 Spanish pilot, who made himself acquainted 
 with every particular of their voyage. 
 Having obtained his liberty soon after, he 
 embarked on his return to Spain, but was 
 captured, on the coast of Algarve, by a 
 Portuguese vessel, commanded by Toa Gon- 
 calves Zarco, and carried to Lisbon ; Amores 
 having first put the captain in full possession 
 of the circumstances connected with the 
 discovery of the new island ; in consequence 
 of which, they both waited upon the Infante, 
 Prince Henry, and the result was, that a 
 ship was put under Zarco's orders, which 
 sailed from Algarve on the 1st of June, 1419. 
 After a few days' wandering about, they 
 were gratified by a sight of the new island, 
 which appeared as if covered with a perpe- 
 tual, dense, black cloud. They first disem- 
 barked upon a tongue of land to the eastward, 
 which they named, after their vessel, Pont 
 St. Lawrence. They afterwards steered 
 south, and anchored in a beautiful bay, 
 where one of the expedition, Rui Paes, was 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 23 
 
 sent on shore to make observations upon the 
 situation and appearance of the island. He 
 landed at the same spot as Robert a Machim. 
 His report upon the island was extremely- 
 favorable. He had discovered the tombs of 
 the ill-fated lovers as described by the English 
 sailors. Upon the 2nd of July, 1419, Zarco 
 and two priests disembarked at the spot of 
 sepulture, and there took formal possession 
 of the island for the Portuguese crown; 
 having first thanked Heaven for crowning 
 their object with success. After celebrating 
 mass in a hut formed of the trunk of a tree, 
 they performed the funeral service over the 
 tomb of the lovers, and erected a church 
 upon the spot, which they dedicated to 
 Christ. 
 
 Such is a brief epitome of the best account 
 of the discovery of Madeira, which I think 
 is credible enough. 
 
 The valley of Machico, the scene of these 
 events, is singularly wild and romantic. 
 It is situated in the south-east part of the 
 island, between Santa Cruz and Pont St. 
 Lawrence. The best mode of visiting it, is 
 
24 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 to take boat at Funchal, with plenty of 
 creature comforts on board, and gently 
 proceed along the awfully terrific coast, till 
 you arrive at Santa Cruz, where visitors 
 generally refresh. The road from Santa 
 Cruz to Machico is very good ; a portion of 
 it resembling an English park road. 
 
 After traversing about three miles the 
 beautiful valley of Machico bursts suddenly 
 upon the view, with its pretty looking 
 village, and mountain torrent winding 
 through it. Sitting upon the top of the 
 steep hill you must descend before entering 
 the village, you may enjoy one of the finest 
 views in the world. You will remember to 
 be sure, previous to leaving Santa Cruz, to 
 order your boatmen to proceed on to Machico, 
 there to take you up; as, although the 
 c^^scent into the valley is pleasant enough, 
 the accent, which consists of about a dozen 
 almost perpendicular windings, is highly 
 dangerous to invalids. I accomplished the 
 task with great difiiculty, being in a fainting 
 state when I reached the top, which caused 
 hemorrhage in my chest, and, of course, 
 bloody expectoration. 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 25 
 
 The great point of attraction in Machico 
 is the church said to have been built over 
 the remains of the lovers. Hanging on the 
 wall of the church, you behold a miniature 
 wooden cross, framed and glazed, with an 
 inscription underneath, signifying that it is 
 made from a portion of the original cross 
 placed over the graves, which was long lost, 
 but afterwards discovered by Robert Page, 
 an English gentleman, and placed there. 
 This statement, however, is very equivocal; 
 and I could discover no rational ground for 
 supposing it to be part of the original cross. 
 
 Funchal, the capital of the island, is a 
 strong, well-built tovra. The houses consist 
 generally of two stories and a turret ; and, 
 being all whitewashed outside, present a very 
 clean appearance; the rooms are, for the 
 most part, lofty and well ventilated; the 
 streets are well paved with smooth round 
 pebbles, which when wet, are very sUppery ; 
 there is neither dust nor mud to be seen 
 in the town, which is well supplied with 
 most delicious water from the mountains, 
 by means of levadas or water courses. 
 
 D 
 
26 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 There is nothing very striking in any of the 
 public buildings ; which consist of the 
 governor's house. Fort Lorenzo, the custom 
 house, the fish and fruit markets, the cathe- 
 dral, the Jesuit's college, the town hall, and 
 one or two unimportant places beside. The 
 town is watched by an apparently well 
 organized police. There are no venomous 
 or dangerous animals in the island. There 
 are three Fracas, or public promenades, 
 a good English library, (subscription, six 
 dollars, or twenty-five shillings per annum,) 
 and an English reading and commercial 
 room by the sea side, which is well supplied 
 with the latest news, &c., from home, and 
 is, altogether, a very comfortable lounge, 
 the subscription to which is two dollars, or 
 eight shillings and four pence per annum. 
 
 The Ilheo, or Loo Rock, is an object which 
 arrests the attention immediately upon 
 coming to anchor in the bay. It is a singu- 
 larly rugged, isolated rock, surrounded by 
 sharp sunken rocks, horrible to look upon. 
 It has been shaped and strengthened by art, 
 so that it is now a very respectable fortress, 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 27 
 
 completely surrounded by the ocean ; there 
 are several large pieces of cannon mounted 
 upon its walls, which completely command 
 the whole bay; there are, also, numerous 
 signal staffs, and a semaphore, by means of 
 which, the moment a vessel appears in sight, 
 it is made known to the town, by means of 
 certain signals upon the flag staff. The 
 Peak Fort, again, is situated upon a high 
 peak of land on shore ; it mounts several 
 large guns, which command the town. 
 
 I shall content myself with mentioning 
 two other objects of attraction — the church 
 of " Our Lady of the Mount," and the 
 Curral. 
 
 To see the former, you will have to ascend 
 a well-made, but extremely steep road, about 
 three miles in length: I forget its height 
 above the sea's level, but it is considerable. 
 The church is large and well-built, and with 
 its images, altar, &c., presents a very good 
 specimen of Catholic churches of the olden 
 time. You arrive at the entrance by means 
 of a lofty flight of broken steps, from the 
 summit of which the view is very beautiful. 
 
28 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 On a clear sunny day you may look below 
 and let your eye wander across the most 
 luxuriant foliage in the world, till it meets 
 the town of Funchal, with its roadstead, and 
 the ships at anchor ; every thing looking so 
 exquisitely diminutive, that you may almost 
 fancy you behold a daguerrotype scene be- 
 fore you. 
 
 Concerning the Curral, which is the lion 
 of the island, and one of the most magnifi- 
 cent places in the world, I shall not say 
 one word myself ; but, instead thereof, insert 
 the following interesting epistle upon the 
 subject from my friend,* Dr. Archibald 
 
 * As the name of Dr. Ross will appear more than once 
 in this epistle, I take this opportunity of making my 
 most grateful acknowledgments to that gentleman for 
 the valuable information he has afforded me concerning 
 the island of Madeira; for the uniform kindness I 
 have experienced at his hands ; and for bestowing upon 
 me his friendship, of which I am justly proud : and 
 I can only hope, that, as he has taken up his abode in 
 modern Babylon, after sixteen years absence from 
 his native land, he may be the means, under Providence, 
 of alleviating (from his extensive experience in all 
 diseases of the chest) much human suffering. 
 
INTRODUCTOEY EPISTLE. 29 
 
 Colquhoun Ross, which I have received 
 since my arrival in England. 
 
 " London, September 30^^, 1848. 
 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " In requesting me to favor you 
 with a description of the Curral in my own 
 language, you have imposed a very diiRcult 
 task upon me. I am, at present, hard pres- 
 sed for time ; have little leisure for letter 
 writing ; and, as I have with me no authori- 
 ties which I can consult, I must trust to my 
 memory for materials, it being now twenty 
 years since I first visited Madeira, in conse- 
 quence of the delicate state of my own 
 lungs. 
 
 " I could have accomplished the task much 
 better then^ than I can do now ; the grandeur 
 and unrivalled magnificence of that lovely 
 land growing upon one so strongly year after 
 year, that, when you become better acquain- 
 ted with the vastness and variety of the 
 mountain scenery, you feel how very inade- 
 d3 
 
30 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 quate either pen or pencil is to give any- 
 distinct idea of the wonders unfolded in 
 Madeira. 
 
 " However, as you wish it, I shall endea- 
 vour to give a few hints to invalids^ to guide 
 them, and perhaps enable them to make an 
 excursion to the Curral under the most 
 favourable auspices. 
 
 " Invalids must be careful in selecting a 
 suitable time of the year for all mountain 
 expeditions ; and they never ought to start 
 for the Curral, or any part to the west of the 
 island, unless the weather is in such condition 
 as I shall point out. 
 
 ''After the rains have fallen freely in Octo- 
 ber, or early in November (for the seasons 
 are ever quite as periodical in Madeira as in 
 the tropics), I should advise invalids and 
 others, to take advantage of one of those 
 clear, nay, translucent days in November or 
 December, when the wind is steady in the 
 N.E., the barometer about SO'' 30," and with 
 the thermometer standing at from 68° to 70° 
 in town. The air is then fresh and bracing, 
 and the heart feels in such rapture while 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 31 
 
 gazing upon the fair mountain tops, as makes 
 one long to flee to their sunny heights to 
 skip over them. 
 
 " Having ascertained that the day is favor- 
 able, and having ''fixed^'' as Brother Jona- 
 than expresses it, " a good basket," consisting 
 of cold roast beef, chickens, a pigeon pie, 
 some of Bass's pale ale, and a bottle or two 
 of champagne, or some of that new, light, 
 and wholesome wine, called Palhete or 
 Palheteinho ; these necessaries being duly 
 arranged, should be started off early in a 
 stout palanquin. 
 
 " The party ought to start by, at least, half- 
 past eight o'clock in the morning. The 
 road, at many points of the journey, is so 
 rough and precipitous, that I always advised 
 my patients to take with them two or three 
 hammocks, when the party was a large one, 
 to assist the more delicate of its members 
 over the worst passes ; every person being 
 otherwise provided with a good horse or pony. 
 
 " A picnic in Madeira, is about one of the 
 most rational, healthful, and certainly one o^ 
 the most enjoyable amusements the island 
 
32 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 affords. The scenery is, perhaps, in beauty, 
 the loveliest in all the world ; the atmosphere 
 is charmingly soft and serene; and few 
 places, in point of sublimity, can be com- 
 pared to the Curral. The mere physical 
 part of the pleasure of these expeditions is 
 very great, but who can measure the mental 
 joyousness of many a young and bounding 
 heart on such occasions. 
 
 " There are two roads by which you can 
 proceed to visit this far-famed spot. The long 
 way, is by Camera de Lobos and the Jardin 
 a Serra. The nearer, and more interesting 
 route, and by which I shall now suppose I 
 am conducting my party, is by the Quinta 
 do St. Joao, the church of St. Antonio, the 
 Quinta dos Padres, and the Midshipman's 
 Curral — This is a very beautiful small ravine, 
 and is named " The Middy's Curral," from 
 the fact, that the burroquiros (or grooms, 
 each horse being attended by one) frequently 
 practise a very pardonable ruse upon these 
 young gentlemen, who are notorious for 
 riding " fast and furious." When they have 
 reached this Ribeiro, the burroquiro boldly 
 
INTEODUCTORY EPISTLE. 33 
 
 declares, (at the same time grasping the 
 horse's bridle) " I say, now, master, this is 
 the Curral," and many return, fully convinced 
 that they have beheld the great wonder of 
 the island. 
 
 '' Having crossed this ravine, the road sud- 
 denly becomes very steep and rough ; and, 
 to prevent the horse from sKpping, the bur- 
 ro quiro makes him dash on at a rapid rate, 
 and you are sent scrambling up the mountain 
 side at a gallop, holding tightly on by the 
 horse's mane to prevent yourself from sliding 
 over the tail. The party ought to dismount 
 at the pine trees, which here cover the 
 summit of the hill ; cross the Levada a few 
 steps, and a wonderful view bursts upon the 
 spectators. This is the Ribeiro dos Socorri- 
 dos, the outlet of the valley of the Curral. 
 The prospect here is very striking — in the 
 distance there is the bold gigantic precipice 
 of Cape Girao, the highest perpendicular 
 sea cliff in the world ; the huge mountains 
 of Campanario, stretching towards the Jardin 
 da Serra, (the mansion of Henry Veitch, 
 Esq.), covered with noble forest trees; then. 
 
34 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 in the lower ground, is the picturesque and 
 romantically situated old town of Camera 
 de Lobos ; the Sea Wolf's Den, &c. But it 
 is in vain to attempt to give any detailed 
 account of the glories and delights of this 
 view, ' The quintas and cottages,' as Dr. 
 Macauley very eloquently observes, 'half 
 smothered amid masses of most luxuriant 
 vegetation : the rough aloe, and the cactus, 
 or prickly pear, exhibiting its grotesque 
 attitudes from the rocks at the road side; 
 hedges of myrtle and fuchsias, mingled with 
 heliotropes, roses, and geraniums ; the soil 
 everywhere teeming with the most graceful 
 creepers ; the white walls glowing with 
 multitudes of the fairest and sweetest flowers ; 
 the gay verdure of the vineyards ; the tall 
 dark Cyprus trees ; the pure and cool 
 water from the mountains, gurgling in the 
 lavadas that cross the path, or run down the 
 steep slope, to scatter freshness and fertility 
 through the cultivated grounds ; the banana, 
 with its broad fresh leaves, sending back the 
 sun's rays from their polished surface, while 
 the older leaves, torn and feathery, wave in 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 35 
 
 the gentle breeze; an occasional palm tree 
 uprearing itself at the side of some water 
 course, with oriental effect ; the orange trees 
 with their golden fruit and thick shadowy 
 foliage: these are among the objects that 
 charm the eye, during this most glorious 
 ride.' 
 
 " After leaving the pine trees, the road, 
 for about two miles, winds round the edge 
 of a high mountain. The path here is very 
 good and level ; but there is nothing very 
 interesting to observe in the scenery, which 
 is wild and bare. In a short time, however, 
 you approach, once more, the edge of the 
 Ribeiro dos Socorridos ; and then you gaze 
 with increased rapture upon the rugged, 
 vast, stern, gorgeous moutains, leading into 
 the Curral all the way now on to the edge 
 of the huge cavern itself ; the valleys and 
 crevices so deep and narrow; while the 
 mountains that hang over them in menacing 
 cliffs, are so stupendously lofty, that here are 
 abysses in almost perpetual gloom. 
 
 " From the steepness of the ascents, the 
 
36 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 mountain torrents shoot down with the ra- 
 pidity of lightning ; and, in the winter sea- 
 son, when the rains fall heavily, dozens of 
 waterfalls may be seen filling the caverns 
 with foam, and the air with dense mist. The 
 sides of the mountains here are splendidly 
 green, and covered with the old magnificent 
 island forest trees, such as the vinhatico, 
 laurel, til, aderno, and the useful chestnut, 
 which afibrds subsistence for the poor for 
 two months in the year. 
 
 " The road now becomes very uneven ; 
 often steep, and covered with large sharp 
 pointed stones. From the horse's back, you 
 can look sheer down^ at several points and 
 turnings of the road, fully two thousand feet. 
 It is hazardous work travelling for the first 
 time along such a narrow pathway ; and, if 
 the invalid is at all nervous, he ought to 
 dismount, and either walk for a little, or be 
 carried in a hammock. 
 
 " Supposing the party has now arrived at 
 the edge of the Curral. Here will be felt 
 the full force of Byron's exclamation : — 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 37 
 
 * It is a goodly sight to see 
 
 What heaven hath done for this delicious land ! 
 What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
 
 What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! ' 
 
 * tt ^ ^ ^ 
 
 ' Ah me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
 To follow half on which the eye dilates.' 
 
 " Having dismounted and walked a few 
 steps, the party suddenly arrives upon the 
 brink of a precipice, between 300 and 400 
 feet high, forming the south side of the wall 
 of a huge cavern or hollow; in fact, the 
 crater of an extinct volcano. This vast 
 Ribiero is completely surrounded by bold, 
 lofty, rugged mountains, from the sides of 
 which, massive crags and rocky cliffs run 
 out into the abysses below. 
 
 " The valley of the Curral, that is, from the 
 top of the Ribiero dos Socorridos to the base 
 of the Lombo Grande, is about three miles 
 in length ; and, from the base of Pico do> 
 Sedrao to the bottom of Pico Grande, its 
 vis-a-vis^ the measurement is about three- 
 quarters of a mile. Below, at the distance 
 of some thousands of feet, is the calm, 
 
 E 
 
38 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 peaceful looking church of Nossa Senhora da 
 Livramento. The white walls of the church 
 glitter most beautifully, embowered as it is 
 by the vivid green leaves of the graceful 
 vine. 
 
 " Advancing a little way down the zigzag 
 road, a most commanding view is obtained 
 of the whole range of mountains which 
 form the central group of the island. To 
 the right are the brazen summits of Picos 
 Sedrao, Gates, Ruivo, &c., &c. ; then the 
 eye may wander to the top of the Lombo 
 Grande, where there is the mouth of one 
 of the wildest, and, perhaps, the grandest 
 valleys in the island, namely, the Boa Ven- 
 tura ; then there are the towers of that 
 gigantic castellated-looking mass of huge 
 rocks, the Torrinhas. 
 
 " Stretching on toward the left hand, is 
 to be seen that magnificent precipitous mass 
 of basaltic formation, the Pico Grande. In 
 many parts of this remarkable mountain, 
 the rocks have assumed the form of graceful 
 columns ; these gigantic pillars are covered 
 at their summits by two circular turrets, in 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 39 
 
 the shape of coronets, and often in the 
 dim twilight, I have, for hours together, sat, 
 spell-bound, gazing upon their hoary cliffs, 
 struck with a delirium of delight, and could 
 almost imagine that these figures were the 
 huge forms of king and queen keeping 
 watch over that fairy land. Hours may be 
 spent with much profit in this neighbour- 
 hood. After partaking of luncheon, the 
 party should leave the mountains in time to 
 reach Funchal before sunset. 
 
 " Many travellers have very seriously in- 
 formed me, that they found the road much 
 smoother in returning from^ than in going 
 to, the Curral. Philosophers of Mr. Mac- 
 adam's school will doubtless be very well 
 able to account for that singular phenome- 
 non. En passant, I may mention that I 
 was once sent for to attend a lady, who, 
 horse and all, tumbled over a precipice more 
 than thirty feet high, on her return home 
 from a picnic, and, wonderful to relate, 
 neither the lady nor the horse sustained the 
 least injury. 
 
 " The excitement of rapid riding is very 
 
40 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 prejudicial to all persons suffering from pul- 
 monary affections ; and patients visiting the 
 Curral, should always ride slowly and calmly; 
 but no invalid should undertake such an 
 expedition without first consulting his phy- 
 sician. 
 
 " The Curral is always beautiful and 
 grand, both in storm and sunshine ; but it 
 is during the bright, full, unclouded moon- 
 light that it is to be seen in all its glory. 
 Then the stupendous size of the bold moun- 
 tains, their apparently interminable extent, 
 the sharpness of their forms, but, above all, 
 the tender clearness of their distant outhne, 
 contrasted with the deep azure of the firma- 
 ment above, renders it altogether a scene of 
 wondrous beauty, of overpowering wildness, 
 and of vast solemnity. 
 
 " No description, however gorgeous, can 
 exaggerate the wonders and beauties of the 
 Curral ; it must be seen to enable one to 
 form a just conception of all the wild loveli- 
 ness of that splendid panorama. 
 
 " The ancient account of the ' isles of 
 the blessed' — those fascinating ' Hesperian 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 41 
 
 fables,' if true, can only exist in Madeira. 
 What Horace says of his delightful retreat 
 at his Tiberian villa, may, (as justly remar- 
 ked by my friend Dr. Macaulay), be very 
 aptly applied to Madeira ; and, in reference 
 thereto, is a piece of plain uncoloured des- 
 cription : — 
 
 " ^ This happy isle in my fond eyes, 
 Outsmiles all else beneath the skies ; 
 
 Whose lands with fairest vintage crown'd, 
 E'en to Falernian fields renown'd ; 
 May well no envy bear : 
 Where orange bower and myrtle shade, 
 And beauteous flowers that never fade, 
 A year long splendour wear : 
 Where all the seasons linked together. 
 By sunny skies and cloudless weather, 
 Make one long summer day : 
 And nature o'er its favoured shores, 
 The best of every treasure pours, 
 That other lands display.' " 
 
 " The atmosphere is so balmy in this 
 delicious climate, that many a poor dying 
 invalid has told me, that it was a pleasure to 
 e3 
 
42 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 them, almost to their very last hour, to 
 breathe the air of Madeira. 
 
 " If these hurried remarks can be of any 
 service to you, you are most welcome to 
 them. 
 
 " Those scenes, although now for ever 
 lost to me, are very dear to my memory ; 
 for I have spent, among the everlasting hills 
 of Madeira, some of the happiest days of 
 my life. 
 
 " Hoping that many invalids may be in- 
 duced, by reading your book, to visit the 
 ' sunny isle,' and derive, from its pure and 
 balmy air, all that it is capable of affording 
 in many cases of disorder of the lungs, 
 believe me, is the sincere wish of one who 
 has devoted the best portion of his existence 
 to the treatment (alas ! too often unsuccess- 
 ful) of that fell disease — Consumption. 
 
 " I remain, 
 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " Your's faithfully, 
 " Archibald Colquhoun Ross." 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 43 
 
 Money is computed in Madeira in reis. 
 A rei is an imaginary unit; the smallest 
 tangible piece of money is five reis, equal 
 to about an English farthing. 
 
 The following are the proportions : — 
 
 { 
 
 5 reis = 1 farthing. 
 
 S^^ 10 ,, =1 half-penny. 
 
 ^ ( 20 „ =1 penny. 
 
 100 „ =1 Bit =5 pence^ English. 
 2 Bits =1 Pistarin= 10 „ „ 
 
 5 Pistarins = 1 Dollar = 4s. 2d. 
 
 English money is current, with the ex- 
 ception of copper. 
 
 The cost of board and lodging ranges 
 from fifty to eighty dollars per month, per 
 head. There are several highly respectable 
 English boarding houses in and about 
 Funchal. Your medical adviser will be the 
 proper person to consult before settling in 
 any one of them. If economy be an object, 
 three or four persons joining together can 
 get a snug house, with good sized garden, a 
 little distance in the country, with every 
 comfort, including servants, for about thirty 
 
44 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 dollars a month. Of course a little trouble 
 and exertion will be necessary in looking 
 after such a place, but it is to be found ; 
 and the parties to whom you have letters of 
 introduction will, doubtless, be happy to 
 assist you in your search. 
 
 The hilly nature of the ground entirely 
 prevents the use of wheel carriages ; goods, 
 &c., being conveyed from place to place by 
 means of narrow wooden sledges, each one 
 of which is drawn by a couple of fine 
 looking oxen. To an invalid, the use of 
 a horse is indispensably necessary, as ascen- 
 ding the slightest hill is dangerous, and apt 
 to bring on internal hemorrhage. The 
 horses are excellent, and extremely sure- 
 footed. The charge for hiring a horse is 
 three bits (fifteen pence) for the first hour, 
 and two bits per hour afterwards. The best 
 plan, however, with those who can afford it, 
 is to engage a horse, which is to be well 
 kept, and with groom, or burroqueiro^ to be 
 entirely at your service when wanted, at an 
 expense of thirty dollars per month. There 
 are also palanquins and hammocks, at about 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 45 
 
 the same charge, for the weaker invalids, or 
 those who prefer being carried on men's 
 shoulders to riding on horseback. 
 
 The duties upon all foreign productions 
 and importations are extremely high in 
 Madeira; you will, therefore, be cautious 
 about taking out with you any more baggage 
 than you actually require, as you can be 
 supplied upon the island at a less expense 
 than in England, and free of duty. 
 
 Almost every vegetable production in the 
 known world will, by a little management, 
 become naturalized in Madeira. 
 
 The climate of Madeira is, perhaps, the 
 most delicious and equable in the world. 
 I have had opportunities of consulting mas- 
 ters of ships, and other individuals who 
 have traversed the whole globe, and they 
 have, one and all, declared that they never 
 beheld its equal. Behold, my friend, the 
 following registers of the temperature of a 
 Madeira winter, which have been kindly 
 supplied me by Dr. Ross, and compare them 
 with the like registers of our own harsh, 
 cold, damp, misty, murky atmosphere. 
 
46 
 
 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 The following is the average temperature 
 of each month, taken at different periods 
 of the dav : — 
 
 THERMOMETER. 
 
 
 
 9 A.M. 
 
 2 P.M. 
 
 10 p. 
 
 November 
 
 ^Uo 
 
 692. 
 
 65H 
 
 December 
 
 62i 
 
 65^: 
 
 64i 
 
 January- 
 
 6.3:4 
 
 641 
 
 63|r 
 
 February 
 
 61^1 
 
 63i 
 
 62,: 
 
 March 
 
 623^ 
 
 64: 
 
 64 
 
 April 
 
 63i-: 
 
 661 
 
 65| 
 
 
 BAROMETER. 
 
 
 Set fair 
 
 , , 
 
 . 30° 
 
 61 
 
 Fine . 
 
 . . . 
 
 . 30 
 
 22 
 
 Shov^ers 
 
 , , 
 
 . 30 
 
 00 
 
 Eain . 
 
 . • . 
 
 . 29 
 
 83 
 
 Much rain 
 
 . 29 
 
 67 
 
 Stormy . 
 
 . • 
 
 . 29 
 
 36 
 
 Look at this, Josephus, and then tell me 
 that your mouth waters. It is now the 
 middle of the month of February ; I fancy, 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 47 
 
 my worthy friend, that I now behold you 
 walking up Cheapside, muffled up in your 
 great coat and cloak ; your mouth and nose 
 buried in the folds of an immense shawl ; 
 your gloved hands thrust deep, very deep, 
 into the pockets of your paletot, gazing 
 intently upon the ground; your head and 
 body as stiff as a statue ; your legs like a 
 walking steam engine ; while ever and 
 anon you begin to cough so violently, as to 
 be compelled to cling to the nearest lamp- 
 post for support : while I, at the same time, 
 arrayed in a light summer dress, have been, 
 cigar in mouth, lounging among my friend 
 Dr. Mackellar's coffee trees, which are bent 
 beneath the weight of their fruit ; while, at 
 a little distance off, the ladies, attired in 
 
 light white dresses (Dr. M has had a 
 
 small dinner party), are inspecting a hedge 
 of geraniums in full bloom, about ten feet 
 high, beneath as blue and cloudless a sky 
 as ever canopied mortal. Is it not delightful ? 
 Verily, if my nature would permit, I should 
 wish to Uve and die in such a place. When 
 it rains, it rains in downright earnest. There 
 
48 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 is no mistake about a Madeira rain. And 
 so, likewise, when it clears up, it is a deter- 
 mined clear up, without the least equivoca- 
 tion. Unlike our own English rains, which 
 leave behind them nothing but the most dis- 
 agreeable moisture and mud ; let there be 
 heavy rain in Madeira of a whole month's 
 continuation; after ten minutes' cessation 
 the streets will be perfectly dry and cool, 
 with not the least moisture. There is, how- 
 ever, a heavy dew falls after sunset, which 
 invalids have no business to be abroad in. 
 
 The summer, which, I have been informed, 
 is as beneficial, in some cases, as the winter, 
 is not so hot as may be supposed; while 
 the equability of temperature is in the same 
 ratio as the winter months : and although I 
 found it very wearisome, from the absence of 
 most of the English from the town, I did not 
 find it too hot. If you should find the heat 
 too great for you, pack up a little baggage, 
 mount your horse, and, after a six hours 
 ride, you will arrive at St. Anna, in the 
 north of the island, which you will find 
 sufiiciently cool; and you will have the 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 49 
 
 advantage of beholding some of the wildest 
 and most magnificent scenery in the world. 
 Fishing was my principal amusement during 
 the day, in summer; not such fishing as 
 you were wont to indulge in, Josephus, while 
 pursuing your piscatorial amusements at 
 Twickenham, upon a Saturday afternoon ; a 
 bite, perhaps, in half an hour ; but regular, 
 downright, pleasant work — ^business, real 
 business, small profits it is true, but very 
 quick returns: in five hours, three of us 
 caught about two hundred fish, with line 
 and hook. 
 
 I shall say nothing about the animal pro- 
 duce of the island, more than to observe, 
 that the beef is very fine, and about three 
 pence per pound ; mutton not worth eating ; 
 and the remainder not worth speaking about. 
 
 The Portuguese ladies in the island, are 
 anything but handsome ; the little exercise 
 they take, and their general mode of living, 
 give them a coarse, sallow, bloated appear- 
 ance. The peasant women are hardy and 
 robust, but that is all that can be said of 
 them. The men, on the contrary, from the 
 
 F 
 
50 INTRODUCTOKY EPISTLE. 
 
 governor downwards, are an extremely fine 
 looking body; the worst looking among 
 them being the common soldiers. Some of 
 the countrymen are perfect models. 
 
 Portuguese morality is at a very low ebb. 
 Licentiousness of the most dreadful descrip- 
 tion, and crimes of an awful character, 
 aboimding among them ; those who ought 
 to set the best example, as the pastors of 
 the people, being the most guilty: and, so 
 long as men tainted with crimes which dis- 
 grace humanity, have the control and gui- 
 dance of an ignorant people, nothing can be 
 expected but the worst fanaticism, the most 
 degrading bigotry, and the most grovelling 
 superstition. I am not going to take upon 
 myself to say which denomination or sect of 
 religion is the best ; my opinion being, that 
 any religion is acceptable in the sight of 
 Heaven, if sincerity be its groundwork. But 
 this, I think, I may safely assert, that there 
 would soon be no grounds for accusing the 
 Roman Catholic clergy of looseness of be- 
 haviour ; that the mind of every individual 
 priest would become changed and elevated ; 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 51 
 
 and that the Roman Catholic religion itself, 
 would assume a more respectable appear- 
 ance, if the priests were allowed to marry. 
 
 The British in Madeira, I found to consist 
 of (with few exceptions) a pious, quiet, good- 
 natured, charitable, and hospitable class. 
 It has, however, the fault of every small 
 community, viz,, a great relish for scandal, 
 which often exhibits itself in a character the 
 very reverse of harmless. There wants, too, 
 a little more of that charity so beautifiilly 
 described by the Roman apostle. Perhaps 
 the love of tattling, and prying into other 
 people's aiFairs, arises from the almost total 
 absence of the ordinary excitements, in the 
 shape of newspapers, theatres, &c., (there is 
 not a theatre in the place), which are to be 
 found in large cities, and which are of them- 
 selves so sufficient to form ordinary topics of 
 conversation, that people have no time for 
 scandal : I could enlarge upon this head, as I 
 have been a victim, but respect for the feehngs 
 of many kind friends prevents me. I shall 
 content myself with remarking, especially to 
 young men who are compelled to visit Madeira 
 
52 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 on account of their health, after having min- 
 gled in the gaiety, and, I may add, dissipation 
 of a town life in England, and upon whom 
 the warm light atmosphere of Madeira may 
 have such an effect, that they may once 
 more return to their English habits, and 
 begin to "run riot," allowing their mirth 
 and dissipation to " be unconfined ;" that I 
 tell you, Josephus, that, if they wish to pre- 
 serve any respect for themselves, that such con- 
 duct will not do in the island ; society there 
 being widely different in its construction, to 
 society at home. You must be very circum- 
 spect in your conduct and conversation, if 
 you do not wish to be blackballed ; you will 
 do well to speak as little as you can of your 
 private affairs, even though, in your simpli- 
 city, you imagine you may be speaking in 
 confidence ; remember the advice of one 
 who spoke from dearly bought experience, 
 poor Burns : 
 
 " Ay free, aff han', your story tell, 
 When wi' a bosom crony ; 
 But still keep something to yourseH y 
 Ye'U scarcely tell to ony." 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 63 
 
 Be a keen observer. In the fulness of 
 your heart, when the wine is circulating 
 around the board, and your social feelings 
 begin to expand, you may throw off all re- 
 serve, and unbosom yourself to those who 
 may take advantage of it. Be cautious ! the 
 less you allow people to know of your cir- 
 cumstances the better. This is a world of 
 false appearances. How true are the words 
 of the old poet : — 
 
 " all live by seeming, 
 
 The beggar begs with it, and the gay courtier 
 
 Gains land and title, rank and rule, by seeming ; 
 
 The clergy scorn it not — and the bold soldier 
 
 Will eke with it his service. — All admit it, 
 
 All practice it ; and he who is content 
 
 With shewing what he is, small credit shall he have 
 
 In church, or camp, or state. — So wags the world." 
 
 One more subject, and I have done. I 
 have often heard it remarked in England, 
 " Oh ! people can live without lungs in 
 Madeira." Never was a more mistaken 
 notion. Hear what my friend. Dr. Eoss, in- 
 forms me upon the subject. He says, " I 
 r3 
 
54 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 
 
 mourn over the numerous victims of con- 
 sumption who are annually sent to die in 
 Madeira, a vast proportion of whom ought 
 never to leave England. The end of many 
 is with railroad speed, hurried on by being 
 sent there. It is not every person with 
 merely disease of the lungs who should be 
 sent to that brilliant and favoured climate. 
 A proper selection of cases ought invariably 
 to be made. Briefly, no patient, with what- 
 ever amount of disease of the lung, either 
 acute or chronic, ought ever to be trans- 
 ported there ; if, in his or her case, there 
 exists the following symptoms, viz. gastric 
 irritation, a rapid circulation, or an excited 
 nervous system. A person labouring under 
 these symptoms, will go like a shot in the 
 stimulating light atmosphere of Madeira." 
 
 Such, my dear friend, is the unconnected, 
 gossiping account of Madeira you asked me 
 for, and which I hope may help to wile 
 away a tedious hour, while voyaging to that 
 pet of nature. 
 
 In conclusion : — after a residence there of 
 a year and a half, during which I expe- 
 
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 55 
 
 rienced the bitterest and happiest hours of 
 my life, I embarked on board a small 
 schooner of sixty tons burthen ; and, after a 
 delightful passage of three weeks duration, 
 (during which I composed the last Canto of 
 my new poem " The Dreamer"), arrived in 
 Torbay, June 1st, 1848. 
 
 Believe me to be, 
 
 My dear friend. 
 Yours right truly, 
 
 OssiAN Macpherson. 
 
THE DEEAMER. 
 
 €attto jFitst. 
 
THE DREAMER. 
 
 ©anto :ffix^U 
 
 'Tis night, and perchance thou art peacefully sleeping, 
 Disturb'd by no visions of sorrow or pain ; 
 While restless, thy brother his lone watch is keeping. 
 As howls the wild wind o'er the tempest-struck main. 
 Perchance, in thy slumber, of me thou art dreaming. 
 Perchance thou art pressing my hand in thine own ; 
 Sleep on ! for too soon the bright day will be gleaming. 
 When thou wilt awake, and the vision be flown.. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sad tears fill my heart as the distance increases. 
 From where I last left thee, dear hope of my heart ; 
 The pulse of my happiness suddenly ceases. 
 No longer its beatings can pleasure impart. 
 I reck'd not that ever the dark clouds of sorrow. 
 Would darken my path, once so glorious and clear ; 
 I dream'd not that ever would come a sad morrow. 
 To change the fond smile to the sorrowing tear. 
 
60 THE DREAMER. 
 
 III. 
 
 I'm now on the waters, the wild tempest rages. 
 
 The billows dash o'er me, all boiling with foam ; 
 
 But 'tis not the storm that my bosom engages, 
 
 I think but of thee, left in sorrow at home. 
 
 I think of the tears that thy bright eyes are shedding ; 
 
 I weep for the sadness that reigns on thy brow ; 
 
 I know that thy thoughts at this moment are spreading. 
 
 Far over the waters that cradle me now. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Fair sister ! tho' borne far away on the ocean. 
 
 Thy image still clings to my sorrowing breast ; 
 
 Thy name not forgot in my nightly devotion ; 
 
 My thoughts are about thee, awake or at rest. 
 
 For, dear one, tho' grief on my pale cheek has lighted. 
 
 Till sweet health is fled, and aU feverish I burn ; 
 
 Tho' wayward and wild, and with folly benighted. 
 
 Thy love, ever true, to thy brother would turn. 
 
 Thou knew'st not the cause, when from home I have 
 
 wander'd. 
 And plung'd into scenes fraught with poison and woe. 
 The pangs that I felt, on that cause, when I ponder'd. 
 Thou knew'st not, beloved one, nor ever wilt know. 
 It burst o'er my head, and to mis'ry it doomed me ; 
 The phrenzy of madness it caus'd in my brain ; 
 I count not on rest till its fire has consum'd me ; 
 And I may not hope to be happy again. 
 
THE DREAMER. 61 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet hark ! as I gaze on the waters around me, 
 A spirit is whisp'ring sweet words in my ear ; 
 And, spite of the tempest whose ravings surround me. 
 Its voice, full of comfort, sounds softly and clear. 
 Tis the sweet voice of Hope, andtho' seas roUbetween us 
 Its bright star is rising — ^my beacon, my guide. 
 It tells my return to the spot which has seen us. 
 Once joyous together — our mother's fireside. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then cheer thee, belov'd one, tho' in a far haven, 
 I'm fated to be a sad dweller awhile ; 
 Thy image will be but more firmly engraven. 
 More dear to my mem'ry thy sisterly smile. 
 And tho', for a time, the wide sea may divide us. 
 And fiU us with bitterest anguish and pain ; 
 And tho', for the present, all joy is denied us. 
 Once more we shall meet to be happy again, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Beside the helmsman (in a gaUant bark. 
 Which battled nobly with the madden'd sea ; 
 Amid whose smoke night's sable grew more dark, 
 Except when countless sparks burst furiously. 
 Like some wild demon darting o'er the deep. 
 Defying storm and tempest with his pow'r ;) 
 The Dreamer sat, not caring ought for sleep. 
 Pondering in sorrow, in the midnight hour. 
 
 G 
 
62 THE DREAMER. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The wintry blast drove on with angry roar. 
 The stout ship quaiFd before that troubled wind ; 
 Deep yawning gulphs were opening wide before ; 
 Black boiling mountains rearing high behind. 
 Heedless the dreamer gaz'd, nor thought of fear ; 
 Unmindful he of wind or hissing foam ; 
 The tempest shriek, unnoticed met his ear ; 
 His only thought, his only song, was " Home." 
 
 X. 
 
 For he was leaving all he lov'd on earth. 
 Unto a distant land his course to steer ; 
 Kindred and home, the country of his birth. 
 Friends he esteem'd, and all he held most dear. 
 And there was one, he parted with the last. 
 One whom he loved, but loved right hopelessly ; 
 Her pitying tears, her friendship firm and fast. 
 She gave him these, but more it might not be. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Oh ! I had pictured me a little heaven. 
 And thee, thou dear one, for my household god ; 
 A home from which all sorrow would be driven. 
 Alas ! how vain, but let me kiss the rod. 
 I thought thy love was like to mine, secure, 
 I fondly thought that thou wert all mine own ; 
 I've learnt this bitter truth — ^that nought is sure. 
 One little word, and all my dreams o'erthrown. 
 
THE DREAMER. 63 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet thou art blameless, tho' thy fixed resolve. 
 Has crush'd what ling'ring love of life I felt ; 
 Thy image still will round my heart revolve. 
 And there 'twill linger, where it long has dwelt. 
 And tho' thy form another's arms should bless, 
 And I may feel a pang thy bliss to see ; 
 This lonely heart will love thee none the less. 
 Nor e'er forget what once thou wert to me. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Hope, from that moment, fled the Dreamer's breast ; 
 His brow became o'ercast with sudden care ; 
 A silent grief consumed him, unreprest ; 
 And aE grew dark^the darkness of despair. 
 His cheek grew pale, and sunken was his eye ; 
 Wasted and weaken'd, grew his spectral form ; 
 And he felt glad, as welcome death drew nigh — 
 It pass'd — behold him pond'ring mid the storm. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 For grim disease with cold relentless hand. 
 
 His frame, with haggard sickness, had pursued ; 
 
 And he was hast'ning to another land, 
 
 (Not for himself) to seek for life renew'd. 
 
 A land where icy winter is unknown. 
 
 And all is ever gay and ever green. 
 
 Where summer sits upon a mountain throne. 
 
 Of that fair isle an ever smiling queen. 
 
64 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XV. 
 
 For he had friends, such as are seldom met 
 By poets, in their weary pilgrimage ; 
 Friends, who would have him all the past forget. 
 And blot from mem'ry's book each bitter page. 
 Oh God ! reward them for the kind intent ! 
 Altho' their hopes and mine may all be vain ; 
 For this poor lamp of life seems well nigh spent. 
 And crush'd each thought of freshened health again. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 I court not life, yet do not wish to die. 
 
 Nor ask I Heaven to extend my breath ; 
 
 I seek not sorrow, nor from sorrow fly. 
 
 It makes more sweet the welcome sleep of death. 
 
 I murmur not at what is past and fled, 
 
 Altho' my frame is prematurely old ; 
 
 'Twas Heav'n that shower'd the bolts upon my head, 
 
 And that same Heav'n can brighter scenes unfold. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 There is a joy in sorrow, when it wakes 
 
 In man, heaven's deepest gentlest sympathies ; ^^^ 
 
 When earth's unhallowed grinding yoke it breaks. 
 
 And lifts the soul to realms beyond the skies. 
 
 Such sorrow loves to gaze on smiling lips. 
 
 And will not chide when youth's wild laughter rings ; 
 
 For sweet as honey, which the May fly sips. 
 
 Some happy hours to mem'ry back it brings. 
 
THE DREAMER. 65 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 For grief has various forms, both sweet and sad — 
 Th' unsettled — ^transcient — and the lasting — deep — 
 A form which, conquering reason, turns it mad ; 
 And one which gently lulls to death's long sleep. 
 It dries up youthful joys, turns youth to age, 
 Ere youth has scarce its boyhood's boundaries past; 
 When life becomes a fitful dreamy page, 
 A glorious dawn, with sudden blight o'ercast. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 There comes a sorrow, where a cause not dwells, 
 
 A beauteous witchery, a holy calm. 
 
 Sacred and pure, that with beatic spells, 
 
 Mingles with mirth, a melancholy balm — 
 
 It visits happy, cheerful, kindly hearts. 
 
 They know not wherefore, yet they bid it stay; 
 
 It leaves its sympathy ere it departs. 
 
 And breathes a lesson ere it melts away. 
 
 XX. 
 
 There is a sorrow which awakes despair. 
 Horrid and frightful, devilish and grim: 
 Its victim sees before him nought but care. 
 Without one heart to sympathise with him. 
 Life then becomes an overwhelming load. 
 Not one bright ray of hope before him Hes ; 
 Wild thoughts arise ! he needs no other goad. 
 Becomes his own self slaughterer — and dies. 
 
 g3 
 
66 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XXL 
 
 And there's the sorrow of the heart bereft 
 At one fell stroke of all it held most dear; 
 For such, there seems on earth no comfort left. 
 The soul that seeks it, must not seek it here — 
 No! There is One that can dry up the tears. 
 And heal the heart, that grief in twain has riven; 
 The voice of anguish pitying he hears, 
 Gro, mourner! seek him. He is found in heaven. 
 
 XXII 
 
 Darkness and tempest revel on the deep. 
 The steersman marks the storm with anxious eye; 
 The shiv'ring watch their careful look-out keep. 
 Resolved and firm, should danger hover nigh — 
 The deep-toned bell peals forth its solemn tale. 
 Albeit the sound strikes, faintly on the ear; 
 Its notes are snatch'd up by the furious gale; 
 I hear its echoes in the distance clear. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The watch are whisp'ring — ^hark! that dreadful cry, 
 "Fire! Fire!"^ — and all that sleeping ship awakes; 
 And frighted crowds on deck for safety fly. 
 And scenes of terror on the vision breaks. 
 Half-naked forms rush wildly to and fro. 
 Each madly screaming some beloved name ! 
 Onward they press, none knowing where to go. 
 Shriek follows shriek, as bursts the horrid flame ! 
 
THE DREAMER. 67 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The swart commander gives one anxious gaze, 
 
 And in an instant all his plans are laid ; 
 
 His daring crew surround the threat'ning blaze, 
 
 And ev'ry order promptly is obey'd. 
 
 They man the pumps, and swift the torrents gush. 
 
 Straight in the bowels of the fearful foe; 
 
 On gallant hearts ! and all this terror hush; 
 
 Our prayers shall aid ye — all we can bestow. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 On yet again! the flames are growing less; 
 Already danger slowly disappears; 
 On! strain each nerve, and soon bright-eyed success. 
 Will crown your labour, and allay our fears. 
 Dash on the stream! the fire still crackling burns. 
 The golden smoke and sparks still round us fly; 
 And all our hearts are rais'd or quail'd by turns. 
 As sinks the flame or mounts up to the sky. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 'Tis past! Great God! I raise my silent prayer. 
 Alone, unnoticed by this timid crowd; 
 My lips are silent, but my head is bare. 
 And in my heart my grateful voice is loud. 
 Thy awful tempest calm I can behold. 
 It has a secret mystic charm for me; 
 Yet grant this boon, ne'er such a scene unfold 
 As this again — a burning ship at sea. 
 
68 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XXVII. 
 'Tis past! and freely flow the pent-up tears 
 From eyes which could not weep while danger reign'd ; 
 And all relate their bygone hopes and fears. 
 And friends are unto friendly bosoms strained; 
 And mute congratulations are expressed ; 
 But first to Heav'n each knee is humbly bent; 
 Again the couch is sought — no more for rest. 
 But for reflection — sleep to night is spent. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And thus it is — a few short hours ago. 
 And nought but boisterous laughter filled the ship; 
 Till peril raised the sudden note of woe. 
 And then, there rose a prayer from every lip. 
 It is but life, a thing of tears and mirth. 
 Just as th' Almighty in his pleasure deals ; 
 When in all shapes, from the first hour of birth. 
 Death, ever greedy, presses on our heels. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 When thunders roar, who does not look to Heaven? 
 Not with a steadfast gaze, but timorous eye. 
 Who sees a mighty pile by lightning riven. 
 But shucld'ring lifts his quailing thoughts on high? 
 Sunshine and safety for a moment may 
 Draw from the scoffer some self-pleasing jest; 
 Let the wild storm but change the face of day. 
 There will he stand, his cowardice confest. 
 
THE DREAMER. 69 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Not that 't is cowardice to own a fear. 
 And with all prudence from the danger fly. 
 But boasters' ravings, none but fools will hear. 
 They know their vauntings give their hearts the lie. 
 To fear his God, and dread his angry frown. 
 Surely in man, the creature, is not wrong; ^^^ 
 The truly brave are ne'er asham'd to own 
 No fear on earth, while that of Heav'n is strong. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The hour of danger — 'tis the brightest hour 
 
 For calm philosophy, and holy thoughts; 
 
 For temper'd reason then assumes a power. 
 
 Which is with intellectual triumph fraught. 
 
 The hour of danger — then the gay and proud. 
 
 Discover what they ne'er could see before; 
 
 They see that while their shiv'ring breasts are cow'd, 
 
 Philosophy still hopes, when wealth can hope no more. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 All hail! bright Knowledge, let thy cheering rays. 
 
 Shine out and dim the pomp of wealth and birth; 
 
 Light up thy lamp, and let its blessed blaze. 
 
 Illume the darkest night of this dark earth. 
 
 Go forth, sweet beauty, with thy lovely charms ! 
 
 Go, in thy modesty to ev'ry breast; 
 
 Go, blushing mistress, and with virgin arms 
 
 Let all thy lovers to thy lips be prest ! 
 
70 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XXXIIL 
 
 Oh! that thou'd'st give to me a giant mind 
 
 To grasp whole volmnes in a single word; 
 
 To dare to reason for my brother kind; 
 
 And spite of power, to make my reason heard. 
 
 I ask no more than but thy slave to be. 
 
 And wear thy silken yoke around my neck. 
 
 I would not change one potent smile from thee^ 
 
 To have earth's brightest crown my brow bedeck. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The storm is hushed — but whither am I borne ? 
 The Dreamer fain would ask each heaving wave; 
 Perhaps, as from my home thus rudely torn. 
 To find — ^instead of health — a foreign grave. 
 It may be so — I care not for the thought — 
 It may seem hard to die so far away. 
 No friend to close mine eyes — ev'n that is nought- 
 But let me know the hour, and come it may. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 But wild forebodings gather in my brain, 
 
 Crushing what little ling'ring hope is left ; 
 
 I often think I shall become insane. 
 
 Of all my reason sudden be bereft. 
 
 Oh God ! in mercy check that cank'ring thought. 
 
 Avert from me thy reason-blighting doom ; 
 
 In pity slay me, ere my mind be fraught 
 
 With utter blindness, bitterness, and gloom. 
 
THE DREAMER. 71 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Heav'n first unreasons whom it would destroy/' ^^^ 
 
 So sung the poet of another land. 
 
 Life without reason ! life without a buoy. 
 
 To keep a sinking wretch upon the strand. 
 
 Yet if 'tis fated that it must be so, 
 
 Then come. Destruction, like a leaping wave ; 
 
 Swift follow madness — quickly deal thy blow, 
 
 'Twill be a boon to hurl me to the grave. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And if my fate should be to linger on. 
 Upon my brow no pitying beam of light ; 
 But every spark that once illum'd it gone. 
 To usher in a never-ending night. 
 Methinks ev'n then, tho' all around grew black. 
 Some gentle sweet physician I might find ; 
 Some nurse whose witcheries could conjure back. 
 An hour of reason sometimes to my mind. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Some gentle nurse that o'er my wreck would sigh. 
 And when my heart was sore, would pitying weep ; 
 Would let my head upon her bosom lie. 
 And like an angel fondle me to sleep. 
 One, who by simple prayers would intercede 
 With Heav'n, on bended knee, for my relief; 
 And whose sweet voice successfully might plead 
 To make my agony of sorrow brief. 
 
72 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Oh ! in that dark and melancholy hour. 
 
 Should sick'ning grief surcharge my darken'd brain ; 
 
 My speech grow wild with madness, and the pow'r 
 
 To find rehef in tears, be urged in vain ; 
 
 Or should grim frenzy nerve my desperate arm ; 
 
 Or should my eyes assume a furious glare ; 
 
 Then come, sweet niu-se, thou wilt possess a charm. 
 
 To ease my grief, and soothe my stern despair ! 
 
 XL. 
 
 For touch one note of music, raise one song. 
 And I'll be gentle as a sleeping child ; 
 Around my heart the chords will glide along. 
 And I'U be calm, my gaze no more be wild. 
 My ravings will with holy sounds be chid. 
 And beauteous forms will whisper round my bed ; 
 And pleasant dreams shall close each sorrowing lid. 
 And sweet, sweet sleep, shall hover o'er my bed. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Soft music ! balm of balms — the poet's friend — 
 Balsam of care — Physician of the mind ; — 
 Soother of weariness, that dost unbend 
 The brow of pain, with power unconfin'd : — 
 Sound of all sounds, the holiest and the best — 
 Friend of the sufferer — and the mourner's nurse; 
 How I do love thee — would it might be exprest 
 Within the compass of this hmnble verse. 
 
THE DREAMER. 73 
 
 XLII. 
 
 I once knew one (but time grows very old, 
 Its days and years so swiftly glide along ;) 
 But wherefore sigh ? Her form is long since cold ; 
 Th' impatient soul long since has fled away. 
 How often have I sat to hear her sing. 
 With faltering voice, some melancholy theme, 
 While her fair fingers trembled on each string — 
 But that is past — like every other dream ! 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 But this is weakness — wherefore should I think 
 On ills which are not, and may never be ? 
 Why should I be in such a haste to drink 
 Of troubled water never meant for me ? 
 Perhaps it is because I feel forlorn. 
 Cut off entirely from the busy earth. 
 Ever to ready to embrace the thorn — 
 A child of melancholy from my birth. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 In that I'm not alone — we are such fools 
 As to court sadness when we might be gay. 
 And so become imagination's tools. 
 And play with ills we cannot shake away. 
 Till they become too troublesome to bear. 
 The sport will end — the worm will eat too deep. 
 What then is left ? Reflection and despair — 
 A tongue to curse — a heart to wail and weep. 
 
 H 
 
74 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Be gay ! Be gay ! Why should we thwart one smile, 
 
 Or load ourselves with voluntary grief? 
 
 Why from its course our happiness beguile. 
 
 For the sick joy of pining for relief? 
 
 'Tis a bright world, and bright souls dwell therein ; 
 
 All will be well with those who deem it so ; 
 
 Be wise — ^be gay — ^let nothing sour creep in. 
 
 For me — but that is nought — my lamp burns low. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 The sun is setting in another world. 
 Rising in this in slow and stately pride ; 
 His beams in quick succession are uncurl'd. 
 And o'er the freshen'd waves they swiftly glide. 
 And in the distance lights a blacken'd speck ; 
 " Land on the weather bow," the seamen cry ; 
 And now a bustling crowd appears on deck. 
 Some with an anxious — some with curious eye. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 The big ship dashes madly thro' the spray, 
 Cov'ring her path with boiling bubbling froth. 
 Pushing the sea behind her on her way. 
 Whirling her giant arms with furious wrath. 
 We near the land, the mountain tops are seen 
 Cover'd with mist, and vapour curling slow. 
 And groves of pines cloth'd in dew-freshen'd green. 
 Rear their straight forms in majesty below. 
 
THE DREAMER. 1$ 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 Tremendous cliffs, and horrid looking rocks, 
 Fearful to gaze at, burst upon the sight ; 
 Fruits of convulsion, picturing the shocks 
 Which made earth tremble, ere it saw the light. 
 Fantastic shapes from out the ocean rise. 
 With here and there deep dark basaltic caves, 
 On which we gaze, with awe enkindled eyes. 
 As if each held some monster of the waves. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Layer on layer of a thousand hues,^*^) 
 
 Form the bold cape, that towers above the head ; 
 
 We pass it, and delighted fancy views 
 
 The gayest feast that ever nature spread — 
 
 'Tis surely Paradise that we behold. 
 
 The sea — the sky — the " every thing" around ; 
 
 'Tis wonderfully bright — all green and gold. 
 
 The lovliest gem that on the earth is found. 
 
 Favorite of nature — choicest of all isles. 
 Who looks on thee, beholds a fairy land ; 
 Rich in thy tears, and sunny in thy smiles. 
 Luxuriantly attired by summer's hand. 
 From the high summits of thy loftiest hills. 
 All is perfection — ^palaces like snow — 
 Eternal verdure — gently-flowing rills — 
 j^ sky for ever blue — a Heaven on earth below. 
 
76 THE DREAMER. 
 
 LI. 
 
 My home, that is to be, for many a day^ 
 To me thy charms will not be valueless ; 
 Altho' disease may on my body prey. 
 And busy pain upon my forehead press ; 
 For I may find a balm in thy pure air. 
 To check the spoiler in his hectic rage ; 
 And on my brow thy warmth may settle there. 
 And may, perhaps, the pain within assuage. 
 
 LII. 
 
 We anchor — wherefore do I feel this weight. 
 This heavy hanging gloom about my heart ? 
 On this proud ship why do I ling'ring wait. 
 And feel such deep regret from her to part ? 
 A few short hours, and she will then again 
 Dash on refresh'd, upon her way once more. 
 Furrowing her lengthy road upon the main. 
 But leaving me behind upon this shore. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 It is because I love the loneliness 
 Which one enjoys upon the heaving sea ; 
 The rough rude billows do a charm possess 
 Far over all that land can boast to me. 
 We feel a danger, but we feel resign'd. 
 Till we love danger for the thoughts it breeds ; 
 Such solemn calmness comes across the mind — 
 A taste of Heaven, whereon the spirit feeds. 
 
THE DREAMER. 77 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Oh ! I love gazing on the deep black brine. 
 And gazing, to unloose my store of thought ; 
 S uch pure delightful moments then are mine. 
 The world becomes a void — its pleasures nought. 
 Shut out from all the hoUow-heartedness, 
 The noise and tumult that on earth has grown, 
 I look to Heaven, and feel my grief grow less. 
 And ope my heart to him — the Sire — alone. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Almighty Grod ! my Father, and my Friend ! 
 To thee I look- — to thee I raise my prayer — 
 To this poor heart a little comfort send. 
 Let me not droop beneath the ills I bear. 
 In all the thoughtless follies of the past. 
 The wayward errors of sad years now fled. 
 Thou hast been with me — wilt be to the last, 
 Tho' ev'ry earthly stay be dark and dead. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 I will not sink while I behold thy love. 
 In all the varied beauties thou hast wrought ; 
 I know, beneath thy parent eyes I move ; 
 And not one sigh, but to thy ears is caught. 
 I will not sink while I can gaze on thee. 
 Thro' these thy works in splendid garb array'd ; 
 Tho' I be stricken down with misery, 
 I still look up — and trust in thee for aid. 
 
 h3 
 
78 THE DREAMER. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 And thou, the sweetest nymph on this fair earth. 
 Let me thy gentle form with fondness clasp. 
 Sweet Poesy ! that kissed me at my birth. 
 And will not leave me till my dying gasp. 
 Thou did'st not waver in my darkest hour. 
 But ever cheer'd me with thy fairy wiles ; 
 And even now, thou dost retain the pow'r, 
 To raise my flagging spirit with thy smiles. 
 
 LVIIL 
 
 My blessing on thee, gentle Poesy ! 
 The anchor of my troubled soul art thou ; 
 A fond companion hast thou been to me. 
 And thou art all that's left to cheer me now. 
 I stand upon this lonely foreign beach. 
 Among a people barbarous and rude. 
 But in mine exile thou wilt comfort preach. 
 And be a partner in my solitude. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Come thou with me — ^partake my lonely cheer. 
 Unrobe thyself — unveil to me thy charms ; 
 Cast off thy coyness — ^let me press thee here — 
 Here — to my heart — within my rapturous arms ! 
 And do thou reign within my breast supreme. 
 Goddess of all my wild imaginings ; 
 And let my fancy with thy spirit teem. 
 And in my visions, fold me in thy wings. 
 
THE DREAMER. 79 
 
 LX. 
 
 Awhile, farewell ! twelve hundred miles of sea, 
 
 Twelve hundred miles upon the wat'ry main, 
 
 Have I travers'd for health, and it may be 
 
 That I may ne'er behold my home again ; 
 
 Yet will I hope — for hope is never dead. 
 
 Till every breath within the breast is gone ; 
 
 Come then, sweet Hope ! and till that breath is sped, 
 
 God — Hope — and Poesy, shall spur me on.(^^ 
 
 END OF CANTO FIRST. 
 
THE DREAMER. 
 
 €mto ^ttorCQ. 
 
THE DREAMER. 
 
 ©anto Swonti* 
 
 Why dost thou gaze so anxious in my eyes, 
 
 Thou fairest flower in this flowery isle ? 
 
 Why dost thou mark the Dreamer's wretched sighs. 
 
 Or wherefore seek his anguish to beguile ? 
 
 Thy gentle hand may on his shoulder rest. 
 
 Thy voice speak comfort to his deafen'd ears; 
 
 But thou canst never to his heart be prest. 
 
 So take thy harp, and wipe away thy tears. 
 
 IL 
 
 Oh! dearest lady, bid me not to smile. 
 Indeed the effort would be all in vain; 
 For tho' my hollow laugh may ring awhile. 
 This heart will never more be glad again ; 
 But take thy harp, and gently sweep its strings. 
 And raise my flagging soul with melody; 
 For in my secret memory back it brings 
 A few bright hours for ever lost to me. 
 
84 THE DREAMER. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh! didst thou know what bitter sorrows lie. 
 Within this sick and aching breast of mine^ 
 Thou wouldst not chide me whensoe'er I sigh. 
 But thou wouldst mingle all my grief with thine. 
 But take thy harp and gently o'er it bend. 
 And sing the song I love so weU to hear ; 
 Perhaps the thrilling echoes may ascend 
 To Heaven, to charm the heart I lov'd so dear. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Speak not of love, its varied pangs and joy. 
 The love is dead, that thou would'st fain restore. 
 It grieves my soul while I thy hopes destroy. 
 For sweetest lady, I can love no more. 
 Yet take thy harp, 'tis all that now I ask. 
 And strike its strings in plaintive harmony ; 
 And tho' in fervent friendship we may bask, 
 Tis all that e'er must dwell 'twixt thee and me. 
 
 V. 
 
 So sung the Dreamer — ^but he was alone. 
 No gentle form was near — 'twas rhapsody ; 
 'Twas but a pleasant dream, which was o'erthrown 
 By daylight breaking on the tranquil sea. 
 Sweet are such visions, for they soothe the mind. 
 Their soft impression is not made in vain ; 
 The soul awakes refreshened and refined. 
 And quiet resignation calms the brain. 
 
THE DREAMER. 85 
 
 VI. 
 
 But see ! the glorious sun ! — 'tis broad daylight ; 
 
 Up, scan this isle, and view each tempting scene ; 
 
 Sure such a wild magnificent display. 
 
 Not oft is shewn to mortal eyes I ween — 
 
 Belch'd up mid ocean, in some awful hour. 
 
 When some dread earthquake shook the troubled earth ; 
 
 Thou giant spark of some volcanic pow'r. 
 
 Sure Nature's self stood trembling at thy birth. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Is there a man, who in his inmost heart. 
 
 Doubts that there is a God ? Let him come here — 
 
 Amid the feelings that these scenes impart. 
 
 Perhaps their authorship will be made clear. 
 
 All that is terrible, or wild, or grand — 
 
 All that with wonderment the soul can thrill. 
 
 Is in perfection in this wondrous land — 
 
 Here speaks the Almighty — tho' his voice is still.^*^ 
 
 VIII 
 
 Best of belov'd ones living ! — wert thou here, 
 To enjoy with me the beauties of this clime ; 
 Living and loving, ever, ever dear. 
 How joyous would become the weary time. 
 Thou would'st see nature in her varied forms ; 
 The rugged — simple — gay — sublime — and wild ; 
 Sometimes in calm — sometimes in splendid storms — 
 Horribly frightful! — and then gently mild. 
 
86 THE DREAMER. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The orange blossom, with its strong perfume ; 
 The stately lemon with its fruit of gold ; • 
 The tall geraniimi in its ruddy bloom. 
 The luscious grape so tempting to behold ; 
 The stony mountains tipp'd with wintry snow ; 
 The tiny riv'lets gurgling all around ; 
 The rich green vallies stretching far below; 
 Where one eternal summer calm is found. 
 
 X. 
 
 And then by moonlight, 'neath some shady tree. 
 With not one cloud to dim the blue above ; 
 To sit and gaze upon the silver sea. 
 And breathe the holy whisperings of love ; 
 To hear the birds so gently cease their strains. 
 Sinking to rest, as sinks the setting sun ; 
 Resting as Nature's beauteous law ordains. 
 In peaceful sleep till day has new begun. 
 
 XI. 
 
 To see the oxen slowly homeward wend. 
 To that repose they have so hardly earn'd ; 
 Sweet hour to them, when toil is at an end — 
 Toil, by ungrateful man too often spurn'd. 
 From lattice wide, as fades the cooling gloam. 
 To hear the harp touch'd by some fairy hand. 
 With voice conjoin'd, in some dear song of home, 
 Some melting ballad of our native land. 
 
THE DREAMER. 87 
 
 XIL 
 
 On summer eve to see the festive dance, 
 I 'd take thee when the golden sun had set ; 
 Methinks more soft would grow thy blue eyed-glance. 
 While list'ning to the little dear machete. ^^^ 
 The evening hour, and that blue sky above. 
 Those joyous rustics in their pleasant glee. 
 Should give our happiness more charms, my love. 
 Than in the crowd, we e'er could hope to see. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yet 'tis not lovely all I gaze upon. 
 
 Here living spectres flit like pale moonbeams, 
 
 Tenacious still of life when hope is gone. 
 
 Even in death's grasp inventing long life-schemes. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a sight to melt the aged eye. 
 
 To see death sport in youth and beauty's ring — 
 
 All know that age must in the winter die. 
 
 But, ah ! 'tis hard to wither in the spring. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then parents' hearts begin to swell with pride. 
 The future path is mark'd out for the son ; 
 The lovely daughter soon will be a bride. 
 Their children's happiness has not begun. 
 And warm affections then begin to bloom. 
 And pleasing visions youthful bosoms fill ; 
 But in their sparkling eyes is seen their doom — 
 The worm has entered — slow — insidious — still 
 
88 THE DREAMER. * 
 
 XV. 
 
 And there are men on this thin peopled earth 
 Who deem it overcrowded. Have they felt 
 The spoiler's sweeping hand around the hearth ? 
 Has the overwhelming blow to them been dealt ? 
 Be not so selfish, man ; bring forth thy gold. 
 And look, in truth, on men as brothers all ; 
 And tho' their sum increas'd full twenty fold. 
 Earth would contain them, and be not too small. 
 
 XVL 
 
 I have seen horrors in this syren isle. 
 
 Such dreadful scenes of death-bed misery. 
 
 That I 've seemed in a charnel house the while, 
 
 Envenom'd seemed the wind that glided by. 
 
 Ev'n now, beneath this roof, in mortal strife, 
 
 A brother's soul and body fierce contend ; 
 
 For well nigh broken is the thread of life. 
 
 And soon the soul its homeward course must wend. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Poor youthful friend, and must the Dreamer mourn 
 For thee — companion of a few short days ?^^^ 
 Oft has my heart with bitter grief been torn. 
 To see thy fixed, unearthly, dying gaze. 
 With thee, life's struggles draw toward an end, 
 I hear thine agony — thy piteous moans ; 
 In vain thy call for relative or friend. 
 The distance wide between, but mocks thy groans. 
 
THE DREAMER. 89 
 
 XVIIL 
 
 With sicken'd heart I watch beside thy bed. 
 
 And in the still midnight my tears flow fast ; 
 
 I pray for thee, now dying, or now dead — 
 
 But hark ! what heavenly sounds come sweeping past ; 
 
 No solemn funeral dirge — but music soft — 
 
 No sabled crowd — ^but sylphs in fairy ring ; 
 
 Gath'ring around to bear thy soul aloft. 
 
 To realms of holy bliss — but hush ! they sing :— 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Brother ! Brother ! come away. 
 For thy spirit here we stay ; 
 Leave this earth, and all its care, 
 Come with us where all is fair. 
 Cease the sigh and dry the tear, 
 Heaven and happiness are near ; 
 Sister spirits for thee stay, * 
 Brother ! brother ! come away. 
 
 XX. 
 
 ^^ Leave this worn-out frame of clay. 
 Let it hasten to decay ; 
 Come and join our joyous band 
 In a brighter, better land. 
 Let thine eyelids gently close. 
 On this world of pain and woes ; 
 Sister spirits for thee stay. 
 Brother ! brother ! come away. 
 
 * ** Sister spirits come away." — Pope — Dying Christian, 
 
90 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Grieve not for each weeping friend, 
 All their sorrow soon shall end ; 
 We will pour a holy balm — 
 We will all their sorrow calm. 
 Sister spirits gather round, 
 Let the song of joy resound; 
 All is over — quit thy clay. 
 Brother ! brother ! come away." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 He sleeps in peace ! his groans are heard no more ; 
 For him, 'tis now enjoyment — he has pass'd 
 Life's dreary bourne, and landed on the shore. 
 Where all for weal or woe must land at last. 
 His fate is bliss — men are born sinners all. 
 But when he shall the trump of judgment hear. 
 His sins of answerment will be but small. 
 Peace to thy ashes ! my companion dear. 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 Consumption ! do thy worst — I am the last. 
 That's left for thee in this abode of death ; 
 In one short month, which scarcely yet is past. 
 Three youthful victims hast thou reft of breath. 
 Without one hand, among their kindred dear. 
 To soothe them in their dying agony ; 
 Nor friendship's voice, nor parent's fondness near 
 To whisper comfort or behold them die. 
 
THE DREAMER. 91 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Feast thine eyes now on me with feverish stare, 
 And touch my vitals with corrosive hand ; 
 Watch my life's hour-glass with malicious care, 
 And laugh as thou behold'st the sinking sand. 
 Light up my eyes with thy consuming fire. 
 Instil thy poisonous venom in my breast ; 
 On with thy work ! complete thy fell desire. 
 And mock my ravings as I sink to rest. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Foul-favor'd demon ! curse thy damning smile. 
 
 Which leaves a canker wheresoe'er 'tis seen ; 
 
 Curse on each damn'd insinuating wile, 
 
 Which blasts the home where all was bright and green. 
 
 Mysterious murderer ! curses on thee light. 
 
 Thou com'st with treacherous arm and noiseless tread ; 
 
 And, like the base assassin of the night. 
 
 Unseen the blow that lays thy victim dead. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The social circle gathers round the hearth. 
 Beauty and youth in manliness and pride ; 
 Young lips give vent to wild unbounded mirth. 
 Young hearts are filled with joy expanded wide. 
 And all are happy — Then thy spells begin — 
 This cheering sight thou canst not well endure ; 
 Thou breathest on them — and with horrid grin, 
 Laugh'st at thy work — thy victim's fate is sure. 
 
92 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Hast thou no pity ? Can thy greedy eyes. 
 Shew no remorseful feeling for thy deeds ? 
 Ah, no ! no tender spark within thee lies — 
 Thy heart is cold, thy bosom never bleeds. 
 But here I stop — for if I do pursue 
 My thoughts much longer on this horrid theme, 
 I shall go wild — such scenes will meet my view — 
 Like the strong nightmare in a troubled dream. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 I would forget them all— and in the scenes. 
 Which here unfold them to my eager sight ; 
 Perhaps I may discover yet the means 
 Of putting all these troubled thoughts to flight. 
 Among thy wondrous works — my sire — my God, 
 I will reflect, and may become resign'd 
 To bear with patience thy chastising rod — 
 I will away, and leave the earth behind. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 When the cool breeze of evening wantons by. 
 Just as the sun is resting on the sea, 
 I have a secret nook to which I hie. 
 Sacred to quiet solitude and me. 
 I am there now — and all around is still. 
 Save the grasshopper buzzing round my seat ; 
 The evening gold is on the eastern hill ; 
 A tiny stream is murm'ring at my feet. 
 
THE DREAMER. 93 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Kippling levadas ^^> murmur on their way, 
 A distant harp falls gently on my ear. 
 The birds sing farewell to departing day. 
 Watching the sunbeams as they disappear ; 
 Soft winds from off the sea are sporting round. 
 Fanning my cheeks in their delicious glee. 
 Sweeping the flowers with a rustling sound. 
 And bearing all their fragrant sweets to me. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 'Tis Sabbath eve, and on the silent air. 
 Deep, measured, solemn sounds are bursting now ; 
 A thousand bells proclaim the hour of prayer — 
 The hour when earth should unto heaven bow. 
 Oh ! what a sacred feeling it awakes — 
 The voice that issues from that vesper bell — 
 The soul impatient, like a giant, breaks 
 Its chain of sorrow, as its echoes swell. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 'Tis summer sabbath eve — in this sad life. 
 The holiest hour — All nature dressed in green. 
 Bright, beauteous robes, reposing from the strife 
 Of her own elements, looks so serene ; 
 Ev'n man himself enjoys the infectious calm. 
 The stamp of care seems from his forehead driv'n ; 
 His heart seems fiU'd with some mysterious balm. 
 That leads his thoughts all silently to heav'n. 
 
94 THE DREAMEB. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Heigho ! this ling'rlng death — this wearying pain, 
 This chilly smothering faintness in my breast ; 
 This hanging sickness in my throbbing brain. 
 When will it end ? When shall I be at rest ? 
 Is there no hope ? If I 'm to be bereft 
 Of my existence by this poisonous fire. 
 Why does it tarry ? I have no wish left 
 To stay the vengeful promptings of its ire. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 For I am weary — day by day rolls on. 
 
 Monotonously languid — still the same; 
 
 The morn brings hope, the ev'ning sees it gone — 
 
 One sickly, dreary, tantalizing game. 
 
 The friend of yesterday, to day lies low. 
 
 The friendship that to-morrow's sun may bring. 
 
 Will, ere 'tis ripe, beneath the spoiler bow. 
 
 So rolls the world on time's regardless wing. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Around the sun the earth moves as it moved 
 Thousands of years agone without a change ; 
 The heart still loves, just as of old it loved. 
 And in the circuit of creation's range 
 All is the same as when the fiat broke 
 On this mysterious orb — ^^ Let there be light," 
 When from its darkened sleep the earth awoke, 
 By the dread power of majesty and might. 
 
THE DREAMER. 95 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 All is the same but man — the mighty clod. 
 
 Who, as his wayward incHnation leads. 
 
 Sinks in the mire, or rises to a god. 
 
 Where ends his might ? Behold his wondrous deeds ; 
 
 The giant workings of his giant soul. 
 
 Where is its hmits ? Who can comprehend 
 
 Where is its end ? How far the mental goal 
 
 Lies distant ? or how far man's thoughts extend ? 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 But what to me is power now or wealth ? 
 Can either ease the pangs within my brow ; 
 Or give me back but one poor day of health. 
 Or quench what burns within my bosom now ? 
 There was a time when my ambition leaped. 
 To gain on earth an honorable name ; 
 But since I've been in this affliction steeped, 
 I have not thought, nor care to think, on fame. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Would I could sleep ! and sleeping, dream away 
 This wretched frame of fast decaying flesh ; 
 That when I woke again to beauteous day, 
 'Twould be with body new, and health afresh. 
 Would that my deepened slumber could recall 
 The weary hours that have since childhood past ; 
 That on awaking, I should find them all 
 In the deep ocean of oblivion cast. 
 
96 THE DEEAMER. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 It is too late — Experience — still and mute 
 Confronts me with sad sorrow on her brow ; 
 And points in silence to the bitter fruit 
 Which I must eat, and eat in suffering now. 
 She drew the curtain when I might have paus'd. 
 And whisper'd counsel when I would not hear; 
 And now I groan for what myself have caus'd, 
 'Tis my own work, the grinding ills I bear. 
 
 XL. 
 
 I might, perhaps, in part, impute the blame 
 To other causes, faults not all my own ; 
 To things which would not now avail to name, 
 It would not bring back peace, nor ease one moan. 
 It is too late ! yet when I am laid low. 
 When aU my failings may abroad be spreM, 
 It may rejoice some steadfast friend to know. 
 That all is not deserved that may be said* 
 
 XLI. 
 
 I may have thought too sadly on my lot. 
 And so increas'd the canker in my brain, 
 Till the sweet joys of life I have forgot. 
 Ne'er to be waken'd into life again. 
 Most like — for oft I make a sudden start. 
 And strive to shake my sadness into mirth ; 
 In vain ! for thought breaks in upon the heart. 
 And hurls the transient pleasure to the earth. 
 
THE DREAMER. 97 
 
 XLIL 
 
 Perhaps I think too bitterly of man, 
 
 And judge too harshly from what I have felt ; 
 
 It may be so — ^but in my little span— 
 
 My little life, that may be briefly spelt, 
 
 I have been smil'd on by such foul deceit. 
 
 And form'd such friendships with such bitter foes ; 
 
 'Neath virtue's garb, seen many a bosom beat 
 
 With cunning villany ; and seen such blows, 
 
 XLIIL 
 
 Dealt by the hand of seeming charity. 
 Both fast and thick upon the victim's head — 
 Blows dealt by those that seeming angels be. 
 Who teach forgiveness, but are never led 
 To seek or to bestow it. These I've seen ; 
 And who can wonder if I like not man ? 
 Not that I hate him — ^my conclusions lean, 
 With pity's eye, his actions all to scan. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Oh ! melancholy — beautiful thou art. 
 When thou com'st as a visitor alone. 
 To stay a little while and then depart. 
 Leaving behind thee not one tear or moan. 
 When thou com'st like a passing gauzy cloud, 
 That dims the sun a moment in its flight, 
 Enveloping its glories in a shroud. 
 Till it is past — when all again is bright. 
 
 K 
 
98 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Oh ! then, indeed, most beautiful art thou — 
 The summer eve — the melancholy hour — 
 The gentle breeze just playing on the brow — 
 All solitude and silence — these have pow'r 
 To calm and settle down the troubled soul. 
 To lighten all our dreary load of care. 
 To make a bitter past from memory roll. 
 And make a clouded future bright and clear. 
 
 XLVL 
 
 Thou comest then, a comforter from Heav'n, 
 Thy mission sacred, and thy balm divine. 
 But when thou comest where all joy is driv'n 
 From the sick heart, as thou hast come to mine. 
 And there abidest — an unwelcome guest — 
 Without one hope of riddance — endless grief 
 Becomes the portion of the poison'd breast — 
 The grave — the only prospect of relief. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 And I have watch'd, and often has my lips. 
 In my stern agony, been mov'd in prayer. 
 That I might but behold thy tardy steps, 
 Wending their way from me — but I despair. 
 Thou art too deeply nestled in my heart. 
 Thou wilt not go — destroyer of my peace — 
 Till thou hast seen my soul and body part ; 
 Then thou must go — for then thy power will cease. 
 
THE DREAMER. 99 
 
 XLVIIL 
 
 But whither have I wander'd? I've been led 
 By these, my thoughts, unto a lovely spot — 
 I stand, alone, amid'st the sleeping dead. 
 Their struggles ended, and their woes forgot. 
 Death has no terrors in a place like this ; 
 All is so beautiful. The yew tree waves — 
 The willow hangs its head — and sunbeams kiss 
 The flowers that bloom for ever round these graves. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 There is not here that shudd'ring sense of cold. 
 That chilly damp we oft in grave-yards feel ; 
 All is so sunny that we here behold. 
 And such delirium o'er the soul will steal. 
 That one may gaze, and almost envy those. 
 Who sleep thus soundly in so gay a bed. 
 And sigh to join them in their blest repose, 
 'Neath the warm earth so lightly o'er them spread. 
 
 L. 
 
 Last home on earth — no sound breaks on the ear. 
 Save the soft gurgling of *the tranquil sea ; 
 There is no fellow mortal hov'ring near. 
 To interrupt the Dreamer's reverie. 
 The birds seem all struck silent as they pass. 
 Or change their notes into a solemn strain ; 
 Here a still voice proclaims — '^All flesh is grass," 
 And fancy hears the summons — " Rise again." 
 
lOG THE DREAMER. 
 
 LI. 
 
 A stranger's tomb — a melancholy sight ^^^ — 
 Far from his home he sleeps in foreign soil — 
 A goodly lamp, with but a treacherous light. 
 All prematurely spent for lack of oil. 
 But slumber on, in all thy youthful pride ; 
 Thou hast escap'd the cares of ling'ring years — 
 But what was that ? Methought thy spirit sigh'd 
 Perchance to hallow these — a brother's tears. 
 
 LII. 
 
 An only son — oh ! what a tale of woe 
 
 Does that one word impart ! — cut off in bloom — 
 
 Just in thy very spring to be laid low ! 
 
 Would that 't were me that filled, instead, thy tomb ! 
 
 My place would not be missed — another son, 
 
 And others after him my sire has left ; 
 
 But thine^ he has — no — had but only one. 
 
 Of whom, in all his pride, he is bereft. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 But now the shades of evening gather round. 
 The signal gun proclaims departed day ; 
 The dew is falling on the parch'd-up ground, 
 I am aweary, and will haste away. 
 The birds have sought the shelter of their nests. 
 And I will home, and in their slumbers join ; 
 The toil-worn peasant on his pallet rests. 
 And I will hence, and seek repose on mine. 
 
THE DREAMER. 101 
 
 LIV. 
 
 But what Is this, that shakes my feeble frame ? 
 
 My pulse grows fever'd, and my brow is chill ; 
 
 And in my breast I feel a burning flame. 
 
 That pains me sorely — I am sick and ill. 
 
 What is it stealing thus before my eyes ? 
 
 This airy substance that arrests my sight? 
 
 Methinks I see a beauteous form arise. 
 
 Like the pale moon that breaks on blacken'd night. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Can it be death ? it comes with noiseless tread. 
 And is so lovely — Oh ! 'tis not of earth — 
 It showers such sweet delirium o'er my head. 
 That all my thoughts to blissful dreams give birth. 
 For it comes with a mother's fondest smile, 
 So soft and tender that I bid it stay ; 
 And then its arms seem stretching to beguile 
 My willing spirit from its worn-out clay. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 And thou art welcome. I have waited long, 
 As for a much loved and expected friend ; 
 Thou shalt but hear the last notes of my song. 
 And then with thee my deathward course I'll wend; 
 For I have been so " toss'd and tempest driven," 
 Among the shoals and rocks of weary life. 
 That from the world my thoughts have long been riven. 
 And I would fain forget its care and strife. 
 
 k3 
 
102 THE DREAMER. 
 
 LVIL 
 
 Methinks, in life's deep struggles, I have borne 
 My share of anguish — drank its bitterest cup ; 
 A mixture of the willow and the thorn — 
 In youth the fount of happiness dried up. 
 And joy has all my fond advances spurn'd. 
 And all my fairest dreams have been as nought ; 
 My fairest hopes to disappointment turn'd. 
 My every act with sad despondence fraught. 
 
 LVIIL 
 
 But now 'tis over — all is growing black, 
 The hand of death is hovering o'er my breast ; 
 My weary eyes begin their strength to lack — 
 They long to close and usher me to rest. 
 Care is no more — it ceases with my breath. 
 My thoughts leave earth, and up to Heaven fly ; 
 The scene is closing fast — Come then, dear Death, 
 And bear my soul unto its home on high. 
 
 END OF CANTO SECOND. 
 
THE DREAMEE. 
 
 €attto Si)irtr. 
 
THE DREAMER. 
 
 ©anto Zf)ixt^. 
 
 X 
 
 It did not come — the welcom'd shadow fled. 
 The dart of Death again was tum'd away ; 
 Th' expected shaft flew o'er the Dreamer's head. 
 And he awoke once niore to earthly day. 
 The sweet oblivion that so gently steals 
 Upon the senses e're they fall asleep ; 
 The placid calmness which the sufferer feels, 
 As from the world his soul begins to creep. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sudden ceasing of harrassing thought. 
 The glorious prospect opened to the sight. 
 The silent joy with which the heart is fraught. 
 The sense of happiness and pure delight. 
 The joy of shaking off the dust of earth. 
 To rush unspotted to the home on high. 
 The change from sorrow to a hallowed mirth — 
 The Dreamer felt all these — yet did not die. 
 
106 THE DREAMER. 
 
 III. 
 
 It did not come — a little longer yet 
 Must I continue on this pilgrimage ; 
 My task is not yet finished — and my debt 
 Of drear existence yet extends a page. 
 I will take up my melancholy lyre. 
 And wake in fitful bursts its notes again ; 
 The sickly blaze of its fast sinking fire. 
 Shall yet emit a last enfeebled strain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Time has roll'd on since last I held my pen, 
 
 A few short months, albeit an age to me ; 
 
 I have both seen and sufFer'd much since then. 
 
 More than I wish or care again to see. 
 
 The furrows in my mind have grown more thick, 
 
 I feel as tho' I am condemn'd to bear 
 
 A hideous load, and be for ever sick. 
 
 And duller grow the things that once were fair. 
 
 V. 
 
 And I am chang'd, as tho' my yet young life. 
 Had from its spring to snowy winter leap'd. 
 And scooped my summer out with vengeful knife. 
 As tho', within my brain, old age hath creep'd. 
 And made my thoughts as tho' I were fourscore. 
 For I've met few who equal me in years. 
 But I have felt, aye — felt it o'er and o'er. 
 How young their thoughts to what in me appears. 
 
THE DREAMER. 107 
 
 VI. 
 
 I care no more to smile, nor yet to weep. 
 
 The hour is past for both ; and, in my breast, 
 
 I feel a something sinking very deep, 
 
 That seems to poison life — I sigh for rest. 
 
 I would be cheerful — 'tis my wish, but yet. 
 
 Whene'er the smile is seen upon my lips. 
 
 By some embitter'd thought half way 'tis met, 
 
 Like some fair flower, when frost its beauty nips. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I wait like one expecting to be call'd. 
 
 To be disburthen'd of a load of debt. 
 
 In which he is so tangled and enthrall'd. 
 
 That he seems fetter'd in an endless net ; 
 
 Waiting the summons with expectant ears. 
 
 To bear him to his only rest — the grave. 
 
 Which pays all debts, and dries the debtor's tears. 
 
 Seals up all slav'ry, and sets free the slave. 
 
 vin. 
 
 Thus far bear with me — when the sickly mood 
 Comes o'er my spirit, and when troubled thought 
 Grows wild with hunger, and cries out for food, 
 I feel my spirits with such sadness fraught. 
 That I must give it vent. But now once more 
 (Gazing in sorrow on this syren land. 
 Sighing a silent farewell to its shore. 
 Which I no more shall see) on deck I stand. 
 
108 THE DREAMER. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I leave It with strange feelings — some regret, 
 
 A deal of pleasure, and a little pain; 
 
 There dwell some kind hearts there which I have met. 
 
 But which, perchance, I ne'er may meet again. 
 
 I have spent hours, as in a lovely dream. 
 
 In perfect happiness, without alloy ; 
 
 I thought 'twould last, nor did I ever deem 
 
 There dwelt on earth the envier of my joy. 
 
 Enough to say, I found a jealous foe 
 
 Enveloped in a robe of flattery ; 
 
 And all unseen, I felt the treacherous blow. 
 
 Which hurl'd me to the earth — What could he see 
 
 To poison friendship's ears with subtle tongue ; 
 
 To turn his rabid venom'd tooth on me ? 
 
 To crush my peace, and see my bosom wrung. 
 
 With sudden spirit-crushing misery, 
 
 XL 
 
 And anguish undeserved. I know the cause ; 
 'Twas envy, vanity, or both combin'd ; 
 It was that I found grace — but let me pause ; 
 I would not willing grieve a noble mind. 
 So let it pass ; and let the slanderer rest 
 In the content pretended virtue brings ; 
 And if he has a conscience in his breast, 
 I leave him to the quiet song it sings. 
 
THE DREAMER. 109 
 
 XII. 
 
 Reluctant I depart — tho' on its soil 
 I leave behind some ill-spared blood of mine, 
 Which was not drawn in honorable broil. 
 But for some cause I never could define. 
 But 'tis no wonder, where the horrid knife 
 Is ever in the assassin's deadly hand ; 
 One simple little word may cost a life — 
 So runs the custom in this beauteous land* 
 
 XIIL 
 
 I love it for itself — its glorious sun. 
 Which one sees ev'ry day — and all day long, 
 Its beauteous summer which is never done. 
 Its tranquil evenings, when the peasant's song 
 Join'd to the sweet diminutive guitar. 
 Awakes the holiest feelings of the mind. 
 I love them all ; but now I haste afar. 
 And soon shall leave their loveliness behind. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The anchor's up — the sea is almost still — 
 Slowly we move upon its golden face. 
 With scarce a puny puff our sails to fill. 
 Our ship is like a fairy — full of grace — 
 A tiny thing, that looks ill-fit to brave 
 The mighty tempest on the ocean wide ; 
 The roaring anger of the dashing wave 
 We. must encounter, as along we ride. 
 
 L 
 
110 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XV. 
 
 But listen to the seamen's sonorous song. 
 Its measured chorus, as they trim their sails ; 
 As now with quickening speed we glide along. 
 While every heart the fresh'ning breezes hails. 
 Its sound is solemn. 'Tis an ocean dirge. 
 That floats melodious on this lightsome air ; 
 Perhaps, some invocation to the surge ; 
 Some sweetly rudely chanted ocean prayer. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Dear island of beauty, farewell ;(») 
 Quick fades thy shore from our sight ; 
 Long in our hearts thy brightness shall dwell. 
 Sweet pearl of the ocean, good night. 
 Cheerly ! boys, cheerly, hi, ho, 
 Cheerly ! boys, cheerly, hi, ho, 
 Cheerly ! boys, ho-o, cheerly, hi, ho. 
 Sweet pearl of the ocean, good night. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Blow, then, ye breezes, blow soft ! 
 
 As over the waters we sail ; 
 
 Up ! man the yards, — quick ! messmates aloft, 
 
 And shake ev'ry wing to the gale. 
 
 Cheerly ! boys, cheerly, hi, ho, 
 
 Cheerly ! boys, cheerly, hi, ho, 
 
 Cheerly ! boys, ho-o, cheerly, hi, ho. 
 
 Sweet pearl of the ocean, good night. 
 
THE DREAMER. Ill 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 'Tis gone ! its outlines are no longer seen ; 
 Come ! then, companions that awhile must be. 
 The sky above, — below, the waters green. 
 Amidst your beauties, unrestrained and free. 
 My thoughts again shall wander. I shall find. 
 What, on the busy land, I never found — 
 A somewhat tranquil calmness in my mind. 
 And, 'mid thy solitude, my lyre shall sound. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 For I feel happy. Here there is no eye. 
 But that which sees the motive thro' the deed ;' 
 Not one that gazes in hypocrisy 
 To find some cause to make a bosom bleed. 
 But one that looks directly in the breast. 
 And tho' that breast may oft be folly fill'd. 
 And that eye frowns ; let folly be confest 
 In one short prayer, and ev'ry frown is still'd. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Here, one finds peace ; here, passion finds no vent ; 
 Here, the vexed soul its troubles may forget ; 
 For all seems awe struck ; it was never meant 
 For human tumult ; here, he who may fret 
 Beneath the grinding hand of power, may find 
 Somewhat to cheer him, if he but beholds 
 These billows, for the pow'r of man combined. 
 Shows no such strength as that one wave unfolds. 
 
112 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XXL 
 
 Here, envy has no home ; no slanderer's tale 
 Finds nurture on the ocean — 'tis no place 
 To search for ears that malice would assail 
 With cruel calumny ; for on each face. 
 The deep-imprinted consciousness appears, 
 That o'er the head is held a mighty rod ; 
 And ev'ry mute expression of his fears 
 Tells man thinks less of man, but more of God. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 He who loves silence, finds it on the deep ; 
 
 He who loves tumult, finds it also there ; 
 
 He, who himself in solitude would steep. 
 
 And from the noisy world his senses tear. 
 
 Let him come hither, for there is no calm. 
 
 Like the still calmness of a tranquil sea ; 
 
 He who, bow'd down with grief, would find a balm. 
 
 Here will he find a salve for misery. 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 Oh ! how I love the sea, in all its forms ! 
 
 I feel no terror when I'm on its breast ; 
 
 I love its peacefulness, I love its storms ; 
 
 Let it in smiles or in its frowns be drest, ' 
 
 I love it dearly, and could ever dwell 
 
 Amid its joys and terrors, so to roam 
 
 For ever there ; and, bidding land farewell. 
 
 Revel in pleasure on my boundless home. 
 
THE DREAMER. 113 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And I have read what poets oft have sung, 
 But ne'er have read so much as I now feel ; 
 There never yet has been the pen or tongue, 
 That has described such joys as o'er me steal. 
 As with an eye lit up with pure delight, 
 I view these heaving waters all around. 
 In pleasing wonder at their sportive might — 
 'Tis here alone my heart with joy will bound. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The moon has risen ere the sun has set. 
 And both illume the blue unclouded sky ; 
 Smiling like lovers who have only met 
 For one brief interview, alone on high — 
 Each in its brightest glory is array'd — 
 The gorgeous queen of night, the king of day ; 
 The one all white, chaste as a spotless maid. 
 Kissing the sunbeams as they fade away. 
 
 XX VI. 
 
 But in the west, a curtain wide is spread. 
 Black, thick, and fearful — now the sun has set ; 
 And on those cloud-tops has his glories shed ; 
 Sure such a sight on earth is seldom met. 
 It looks like one vast city all on fire. 
 Castles and palaces all wrapp'd in flame ; 
 The lofty turret, and the tapering spire ; 
 Compared with sights like this, the land how tame. 
 
 l3 
 
114 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Tis wonderfully grand ! Behind that veil, 
 A thousand chasms of different shapes appear ; 
 The giant ravine, and the simple dale. 
 Mountains and forests, all distinct and clear ; 
 But all enveloped in a golden blaze. 
 Such is the gorgeous scene I gaze upon. 
 But fainter grow the sun's departing rays. 
 And now 'tis black again — the sun is gone. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Again 'tis midnight, and the clouds of heav'n. 
 Far o'er our heads in shapeless masses fly. 
 In flaky shoals, by mighty Boreas driv'n. 
 As if affrighted, thro' the threat'ning sky. 
 The sea is heaving up its giant waves. 
 Covering with foaming spray our little bark ; 
 The wind is rising, and the tempest raves. 
 No stars or moon are seen — 'tis very dark — 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And I am watching with intense delight. 
 The tumbling porpoise. Its electric trail. 
 Curving and winding, beautifully bright. 
 Appears like some sea serpent.^^^ On the gale, 
 Which, tho' 'tis wild, awakes in me no fear, 
 A melancholy chaunt is borne along ; 
 Its notes are wondrous pleasing to the ear — 
 It is the helmsman — listen to his song. — 
 
THE DREAMER. 115 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Once again the ocean crossing. 
 On the heaving billows tossing ; 
 Angry winds around are howling. 
 And the heaven looks black and scowling;. 
 In the tempest we may perish. 
 Still there is a thought to cherish. 
 While our ship drives thro' the foam. 
 Dashing onward to our home." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 *^ 'Tis the thought that aye will cheer us. 
 Home ! its spell is ever near us ; 
 Dearer when the waters bubble. 
 In their wild and stormy trouble. 
 Hiss ! ye boiling waves that bound us. 
 Howl ! ye biting winds around us ; 
 What care we for wind or foam. 
 While our ship is pointing home."(c) 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 In this deep ocean deU, this dark abyss, 
 
 I think of thee, my sister, and my friend ; 
 
 And to thy forehead this fraternal kiss. 
 
 Upon the wings of this mad blast I send. 
 
 A bitter moment did behold us part, 
 
 A better moment may behold us meet ; 
 
 For 'neath thy smile my wounds forget to smart. 
 
 Thy voice awakes a joy, serene and sweet. 
 
116 THE DEEAMER. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 When those who should have smooth'd my rugged path 
 Prov'd all unkindly in my day of need. 
 And when the torrent of malicious wrath 
 Fell on my head, thou wert my friend indeed. 
 'Twas thy tongue then, my sister, that was raised 
 In my defence. And when the cheering voice 
 Of the stern critic my poor efforts praised, 
 'Twas thou alone did o'er my fame rejoice. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The road has been a rough one, sister dear,' 
 Which we have trod thro' life, and struggled sore ; 
 Our prospect oft has cloudy been, and drear. 
 And poverty's black waves has whelm'd us o'er. 
 Perchance, awaits us yet a happier time, 
 I feel a something tells me 'twill be so ; 
 When fate and fortune may together chime. 
 And yet untasted joys around us flow. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Oh ! that my wish could plead its cause in heaven ! 
 
 And from a wish become reality ; 
 
 With what sincere delight it should be given. 
 
 Beloved sister, and dear friend, to thee. 
 
 I would not wish thee ought that e'er could fade. 
 
 Nought that could perish or be swept away ; 
 
 Nor would I wish for pomp in pride array'd. 
 
 Nought that till death's last moment could decay. 
 
THE DREAMER. 117 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 My wish would not include one thought of gold. 
 For 'tis too oft the canker of the heart ; 
 No earthly treasure should its power unfold, 
 For only treasure cannot peace impart. 
 Thou should'st have happiness, and if the prayer 
 Of ardent friendship can avail on high ; 
 For thee, mine is not breath'd in empty air. 
 But carried upwards — far beyond the sky. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The wind is whistling in strange music round. 
 And I am list'ning with attentive ear ; 
 For there is something in its solemn sound. 
 Which seems more solemn on the waters — here. 
 It seems to speak of all the deeds of earth, 
 Which it has witness'd on its forward way ; 
 And 'mid the thoughts to which its sound gives birth. 
 On land once more, my wayward Muse shall stray. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Methinks I smell convulsion in the air. 
 
 The rushing sounds of discord cast their spells 
 
 Upon the world ; and, as with eager stare, 
 
 I gaze into the future, all it tells 
 
 Is blood and carnage ; fearful times draw nigh ; 
 
 Thrones shake ev'n now ; and it but little needs 
 
 To venture on the verge of prophecy. 
 
 If one the coming from the present reads. 
 
118 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 War ! War ! and art thou not yet dead ? 
 
 Me thought man had grown wiser from the past. 
 
 And thou wert buried in thy bloody bed — 
 
 Alas ! 'twas but a dream, too sweet to last. 
 
 It was but yesterday that I beheld 
 
 God's glorious rainbow arching o'er the sea. 
 
 And such pure thoughts upon my bosom swell'd — 
 
 The very essence of tranquillity. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Men war beneath that bow, and give the lie 
 To what they hypocritically preach ; 
 Laughing to scorn that mute voice in the sky. 
 And heeding not that symbol, which would teach 
 Them how to live in brotherhood. But still, 
 Tho' I hate strife, no censure I bestow ; 
 'Tis said that good is oft produced from ill. 
 Who then, from war, can tell what good may flow. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Gaul has, once more, o'erturned her fickle throne. 
 And once again with terror shook the world — 
 Her crown, which had its potency out-grown. 
 Is, once more, into deep oblivion hurl'd. 
 And from that brow, upon whose mighty nod 
 Earth gazed with wonderment, all power is riven ; 
 His fate — the steps his predecessor trod — 
 A very outcast — into exile driven. 
 
THE DEEAMER. 119 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " Hl-weaved ambition !"* Were the lessons vain? 
 Vain the experience of thy changeful life ? 
 They were — or else thou wouldest still retain 
 Thy throne, built up for thee on blood and strife — 
 Built up for thee at such a fearful cost. 
 Thou wert too much the slave of thine own will ; 
 Grasping the shadow, thou the substance lost ; 
 Now thou art nothing — there I leave thee still. 
 
 XLIIL 
 
 Thou pride of poets — glorious Lamartine,(0 
 What rapture seized me, when I learnt that thou 
 Had with thy country's fate invested been; 
 Albeit no diadem upon thy brow. 
 And not thy country's fate alone — the world 
 Stood like the monarch 'neath the hair-held sword ; 
 Gazing upon the banner thou unfurled. 
 And ope'd its ears to catch thy potent word. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 That word was peace, and then the world breath'd free. 
 And then thou had'st all truly good men's praise. 
 Which w4th thy conscience must have been to thee. 
 Worth all the fickle, unsubstantial blaze 
 Of rabble adulation. 'Tis thy pride 
 To war with prejudice, and to destroy 
 All night-black bigotry, and o'er the wide 
 World, 'tis thy aim to scatter sense and joy. 
 
 ♦ Shakespeare. 
 
120 THE DREAMER. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Thou did'st not want a crown upon thy head 
 To tell thy dignity, — it would have hid 
 The beams of virtuous intellect which spread 
 Around thy temples ; and no voice can rid 
 Thee of such glory ; and, tho' slander's tongue 
 May at thy bright career its venom dart ; 
 Living and dead, thy praises will be sung. 
 And Time shall echo them from ev'ry heart. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 Lovely in sentiment, and pure in deed. 
 
 Sublime in language, giant-like in thought ; 
 
 Immortal patriot ! thou shalt never need. 
 
 To blush for what thy eloquence has taught. 
 
 The world thy country ; 'tis thy fond desire 
 
 To see mankind one kindred family ; 
 
 For which thou'rt labouring — thou canst aim no higher. 
 
 On with thy task ! Prince of Sincerity. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 There are two lands, which, from my earliest years, 
 I have felt much for, and the feeling grows ; . 
 And their long suffering but the more endears 
 Them to me ; and my burning bosom glows 
 With feelings strong and deep — that when the hour, 
 When the bold struggle shall be once more made, 
 I may behold it, and possess the pow'r 
 To lend my arm Avithin their ranks array'd. 
 
THE DREAMER. 121 
 
 XLVIIL 
 
 Poland, rejoice ! lift up thy drooping head, 
 
 'Mid the wild discord which now reigns on earth ; 
 
 A sound will come to wake thee from the dead. 
 
 And tell of thy regenerated birth. 
 
 Time has unfolded wide her mystic scroll. 
 
 And with a silent finger points to thee ; 
 
 Be of good cheer, the storms that round thee roll. 
 
 Are but the death shrieks of thy slavery. . 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Heed not the thunder that around thee roars. 
 Not against thee is raised its angry voice ; 
 Its awful sound thy liberty restores. 
 And every echo bids thee to rejoice. 
 A present foe may yet a suppliant be, ^^^ 
 That from thy memory thou the past will blot ; 
 Then aid thee in thy efforts to be free. 
 Thy wrongs redress'd, and all thy faults forgot. 
 
 In days departed did I solemn vow. 
 That I would make this weaken'd arm thine own. 
 When thou should'st need it — I repeat it now ; 
 And tho' long changeful years since then have flown. 
 There is no change in me. Thy many woes. 
 Have but increased my sympathies ; and when 
 My breast no more that cherish'd feeling knows. 
 Twill be when breath is gone, but not till then. 
 
 M ^ 
 
122 THE DREAMER. 
 
 LI. 
 
 And thou, fair Italy, methinks I see 
 
 Thy broad green loveliness before me spread ; 
 
 Thy verdant beauties stretched from sea to sea ; * 
 
 While fancy imperceptibly is led 
 
 Back to thine ancient glories — ^when the world 
 
 Bow'd at thy nod, and when thy sons ne'er deemed 
 
 A stranger banner would be wide unfurled. 
 
 O'er the bright land where once thy banner stream'd. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Terrestrial Paradise ! Home of romance ! 
 Beauty in ruins ! Splendour in decay ! 
 Where are thy sons ? Will they no more advance ? 
 Has all that mighty spirit passed away. 
 Which once could conquer with its very name. 
 And make whole kingdoms tremble to their base ? 
 Feel they no spur from their ancestral fame ; 
 Their blood more watery than the ancient race ? 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Be quick ! there is a sound which bids ye wake ! 
 Why should ye stay, when summon'd thus to rise ! 
 Get up ! arouse ! your galling fetters break ! 
 Gird up your loins, and ope your slumbering eyes ! 
 There bursts a sunshine which will light you on ; 
 That sun is by the oil of freedom fed ; 
 Arise ! and view it, or it will be gone. 
 And all your hopes of liberty be fled. 
 
THE DREAMER. 123 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Ye will arise, and make one noble stand 
 Against the usurpers of your native plains ; 
 Ye will arise — an undivided band ; 
 And tho' it may be, that the gory stains 
 Of life blood reds thy every verdant field. 
 And deepened horror on thee rests awhile. 
 Before thy conquering arm thy foes shall yield. 
 And freedom once again shall on thee smile, (e) 
 
 LV. 
 
 And thou, poor Erin ! ne'er shall want a tongue, 
 
 In this, thy time of grief, for thee to speak. 
 
 While mine can wag. For thy poor heart is wrung, 
 
 And, all in vain, for comfort thou dost seek. 
 
 On thy fair verdant fields the notes of woe 
 
 Are heard, where should be heard the joyous song ; 
 
 In place of smiles thy bitter tears do flow ; 
 
 Thy hopes all crushed, by wrong succeeding wrong. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Perhaps some patriot statesman yet may rise. 
 One who will lead, instead of being led ; 
 One who will search with strained and anxious eyes. 
 To find the cause for which thou long hast bled. 
 Till that day comes, there is no hope for thee. 
 For in the statesman thou must find the friend ; 
 If he beholds himself thy misery. 
 He cannot help but sympathy extend. 
 
124 THE DREAMER. 
 
 LVIL 
 
 In the deep bosom of departed years, 
 Lies many a lesson, would but rulers learn ; 
 'Tis one wide gulph of misery and tears. 
 Which speak of sufferings not well to spurn — 
 111 repaid patience, — ill-rewarded toil, — 
 Confided power abused, — and worse — far worse — 
 That slavery which damns the very soil. 
 And turns its every blessing to a curse. 
 
 LVIIL 
 
 Britain ! my country, 'mid the threat'ning roar. 
 By which whole empires are around thee rent ; 
 May Peace take up its dwelling on thy shore. 
 And may its spirit to thy throne be sent. 
 Thou hast thy wrongs, thy deep and lasting wrongs ; 
 Beneath their weight long patient thou hast stood ; 
 To seek their remedy to thee belongs. 
 But 'tis not wise to seek for it in blood. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 If in my boyish moments I have been 
 Too premature in judging of thy laws ; 
 I have beheld me other lands, and seen 
 Enough to make me in such judgment pause. 
 There is upon this earth no other spot. 
 That can compare to thine for liberty ; 
 And I feel happy that it is my lot. 
 That I can boast a Fatherland so free. 
 
THE DREAMER. 125 
 
 LX. 
 
 These are the thoughts which have rush'cl in my brain. 
 
 While list'ning to the wind which wails around ; 
 
 Its notes are changed, — 'tis now a moaning strain, 
 
 A low, unearthly, melancholy sound. 
 
 What does it mean ? What is the tale it tells ? 
 
 It seems to speak of universal woe. 
 
 It makes me shudder 'neath its frightful spells — 
 
 Oh ! heaven ! I see it now — the foe ! the foe ! 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The foe ! the plague ! the pestilence draws nigh ; 
 
 Man ! set thine house in order and prepare ! 
 
 The world wants weeding — and the weeds must die ; 
 
 The foe ! the plague ! I see its demon glare. 
 
 Marking the victims of its coming feast ; 
 
 There will be dreadful wailings in the land. 
 
 Before the fury of its wrath has ceased ; 
 
 The foe ! 'gainst whom no power on earth can stand, 
 
 LXII. 
 
 I fear it not, it may come madly on. 
 
 And in its madness it may stop my breath ; 
 
 What matter, where all love of life is gone ? 
 
 With me 'tis past — the bitterness of death. 
 
 No ! let him quail who feels his conscience prick 
 
 For deeds which rankle in his guilty breast ; 
 
 The thought of death will touch him to the quick. 
 
 And make his heart with coward fear opprest. 
 
 M 3 
 
126 THE DREAMER. 
 
 LXIIL 
 
 But how the hours of late have glided by ! 
 My native land appears once more in sight ; 
 Upon its fields I once more cast my eye. 
 Lovelier than ever — beautifully bright. 
 Oh ! who can paint the fullness of the heart, 
 When the drear days of exile all are o'er, 
 Of one, like me, who had from home to part. 
 Without a hope to see that home once more. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 I have return'd, but I am altered now. 
 Since last I breath'd my native island air ; 
 Increased experience is upon my brow, 
 I feel more strength my sufferings to bear ; 
 I have grown wiser from what I have seen, 
 I have thought deeply, and more tranquil feel ; 
 And tho' not light my mental wounds have been. 
 They are less painful, tho' they ne'er will heal. 
 
 LXV. 
 I have return'd, but I shall scarce find one 
 To smile a welcome with a heart sincere ; 
 Around a mother's hearth I may find none. 
 To greet me with affection sweet and dear. 
 I feel no spur, when those who should me love 
 Become my bitterest foes, and jealous grown. 
 With envious hatred thwart my every move. 
 Poison my peace, and on my efforts frown. 
 
THE DREAMER. 127 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 I love them still, beloved, I may be not — 
 
 The thought has made me careless of my life ; 
 
 I have long since its pleasures all forgot, 
 
 And care not now to mingle in the strife 
 
 That leads to fame or fortune ; for no eye 
 
 Will view my fame with pride. There is no heart 
 
 Will glow if I succeed ; or heave one sigh 
 
 If I am spurn'd, — or soothing words impart. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Almighty God ! if in thy wisdom just 
 These many ills upon my head are sent ; 
 If 'tis Thy will that I — poor child of dust — 
 Should feel these sufferings as a punishment ; 
 Humbly I bow to thee ; altho' my share 
 Of mental anguish, which consumes me now. 
 Has well-nigh grown too burdensome to bear. 
 And presses sorely on my throbbing brow. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Farewell ! old ocean ! it has been my lot. 
 For many a month to see thee every day ; 
 To-morrow's dawn — and I shall see thee not — 
 Upon the land I shall be far away ; 
 I shall awake me from a troubled sleep, 
 To gaze (so long my wont) upon thy breast ; 
 I shall not see thee, and these eyes will weep. 
 To find that I no longer am thy guest. 
 
128 THE DREAMER. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Oh ! I shall miss thee — holy, hoary sea ! 
 
 For on thy mighty waters I have spent 
 
 So many hours of sweet tranquillity. 
 
 And felt my brow so peacefully unbent ; 
 
 That at the recollection I shall sigh. 
 
 And ne'er be happy till we meet again, 
 
 When I once more shall hear thy lullaby. 
 
 Farewell ! Farewell ! thou vast and wondrous main ! 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Donjon of Mystery — London ! where I've pass'd 
 So many solitary years of life ; 
 I do revisit thee again at last. 
 Again to mingle in thy busy strife. 
 My future fate awakes in me no thought — 
 For I so long have been by sorrow nurst. 
 That I am callous, and I care for nought. 
 And have prepared my mind to meet the worst. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 No more of this — but let me now conclude. 
 
 With one more subject, and the pleasing theme 
 
 Shall be a register of gratitude. 
 
 In language which, unworthy tho' it seem. 
 
 Will be at least sincere ;. and if my hand 
 
 Fails to describe the feelings of the heart ; 
 
 It is because I cannot now command 
 
 The strength to utter what I would impart. 
 
THE DREAMER. 129 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 In my dark hour, when fortune on me scowl'd, 
 Withering each ray of hope with grinding rage ; 
 When cold blasts came, and all around me howl'd. 
 And chill'd my very blood ; and when my page 
 Of health was blotted, never to return ; 
 And when stretch'd out on poverty's sick bed, 
 I felt upon my brow the fever burn — 
 When life itself seem'd to have well-nigh fled, 
 
 LXXIIL 
 
 My reason shatter'd, and the fiend Despair 
 Had undermined my peace ; and when the thread 
 Of that existence which once promised fair. 
 Was rotting fast ; and when no friendly eye. 
 In pity gazed upon my wasted form 
 And pallid cheek ; when ne'er a soul came nigh 
 To sooth within my breast the wintry storm ; 
 And none to care if I might live or die. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 In that dark hour, there fell upon my ears, 
 In accents mild, a heaven speaking voice ; 
 Which like the summer sun dried up my tears. 
 And bade my sinking heart once more rejoice. 
 It bade me hope, and Hope sprang up apace, 
 As if by magic touch the storm was hush'd; 
 My slumber was less fretful, and my face 
 Became less pallid — my despair was crush'd. 
 
130 THE DREAMER. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 'Twas yours, my patrons, ever honored pair ! 
 Your hands, your voices, that upheld me then. 
 That made my gloomy day again look fair. 
 And changed my grief to joy fulness ; and when 
 All the world shunn'd me, and I had no friend. 
 And on life's ocean was by tempests driven ; 
 Oh ! it was then your friendship did descend 
 Upon my head — fresh as the dews of heaven. 
 
 LXXVL 
 
 And I am grateful — in this humble verse 
 
 I do record it — for it may be so, 
 
 That these rude lines my feelings may rehearse, 
 
 And still speak out my thanks, when I am low — 
 
 And if by accident the Dreamer's name 
 
 Shall be remembered in far distant days. 
 
 Yours too, my friends, will mingle with his fame. 
 
 And many an unborn heart your deeds will praise. 
 
 LXXVIL 
 
 Farewell to all ! for now the Dreamer's lyre. 
 Grows faint, and soon its echoes will be dead ; 
 The hand which tuned it now begins to tire — 
 Again the dark clouds gather o'er my head — 
 And I know not how soon my sun may set. 
 For strange, strange feelings play around my heart- 
 I would be gone — I long to pay my debt, 
 I feel bow'd down with age, and would depart. 
 
THE DREAMER. 131 
 
 LXXVIIL 
 
 And if too mournfully the feeble chords. 
 Have seem'd to sound to cheerful happier ears ; 
 Let me express in these my parting words. 
 My parting wish to them — that what appears 
 Of suffering in this the Dreamer's song. 
 May ne'er to them be stern reality ; 
 But that thro' life they all may pass along. 
 In health — and peace — and kind prosperity. 
 
 END OF CANTO THIRD. 
 
NOTES TO THE DREAMER. 
 
NOTES TO CANTO FIRST. 
 
 Note (a). Page 64. 
 
 " There 18 a joy in sorrow, when peace dwells in the breast 
 of the sad.'' 
 
 OssiAN~Oom«. 
 
 In the same poem there is to be found as pathetic and 
 touching a burst of sorrow as ever was uttered by mortal, in 
 Malvina's lament for her departed lord and love, Oscar : — 
 " I was like a lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar, with all my 
 branches around me ; but thy death came like a blast from 
 the desert, and laid my green head low ; the spring returned 
 with its showers, but no leaf of mine arose." This is the 
 very essence of uneradicable grief. 
 
 Note (^). Page 69. 
 
 " The great Creator to revere, 
 Must sure become the creature.'' 
 
 Burns. 
 
 Note (c). Page 71 
 
 " Quem Deus vult perdere, 
 Prius dementat." 
 
 (I forget the author.) 
 
 Note (d). Page 75. 
 Cape Garajao, or the Brazen Head. 
 
 See Introductory Epistle. 
 
136 NOTES TO CANTO FIRST. 
 
 Note (e). Page 79. 
 
 " God, Love, and Poetry — these are the three only words 
 I should wish engraved on my monument/' 
 
 Lamartine — Voyage en Orient. 
 
 As there is a kind of affinity of sentiment between the im- 
 mortal French bard and myself in this particular, I may 
 here mention, lest I be accused of plagiarism, that at the 
 time I committed my line to paper, I had not read any of 
 Lamartine's writings. 
 
NOTES TO CANTO SECOND. 
 
 Note C). Page 85. 
 
 My friend and constant companion in Madeira— Joseph 
 Lees, Esq., of Manchester, thus wrote to me from the moun- 
 tains : — " I have often heard it said, that nature could never 
 teach man the existence of a Supreme Being. 1 think that 
 there lives not the man, however degraded and lost to all 
 sense of religion he may be, that could travel over Madeira, 
 and behold the grandeur of its scenery, its tall, towering, 
 majestic mountains, its rich, luxuriant vallies, its deep ravines 
 and fearful precipices, without lifting up his hands to 
 Heaven, and exclaiming — * Surely this is the work of an Al- 
 mighty God!' '' 
 
 Note (^). Page 87. 
 
 The machete is a small guitar-shaped instrument, with four 
 strings, the light pretty tones of which always appeared to 
 me exactly to harmonise with the clear beautiful evenings of 
 a Madeira summer. In the cool of the evening, I used to 
 smoke my cigar with greater pleasure than I ever experienced 
 in England, for whichever way I turned my eyes, I beheld a 
 young lady playing her machete upon the balcony at the back 
 of her house. Two or three of these instruments in concert 
 create a very pretty effect. 
 
 Note (c). Page 88. 
 
 This was my poor friend, John Hornsey Trenholm, a 
 young gentleman of great promise, my friend and companion 
 
138 THE DREAMER. 
 
 during a brief quarter of a year. His was a most melancholy 
 case. On the Sunday before his departure, he came into my 
 room, and such a lamentable and emaciated picture of suf- 
 fering humanity did he present, that I shall never forget it. 
 His language cut me to the heart. After telling me what 
 his prospects had been, (and they were bright ones), he con- 
 cluded, with tears in his eyes, — " Who would have thought 
 two years ago that ever it would have come to this?'' In 
 order to cheer him up a little, I prevailed upon him to allow 
 me to assist him to church, and he appeared to rally as the 
 service proceeded ; but when the minister in the concluding 
 prayer, poured forth his supplications to the Almighty to 
 strengthen all those to whom all hope in this world was de- 
 nied, and to afford consolation and solace to the absent rela- 
 tives of those whose hour of departure was at hand, his sobs 
 were audible, and his heart appeared to be bursting. Shortly 
 after our return home, he went to his bed, and in ^ye days 
 afterwards was in his grave — leaving me the last of four who 
 had been alive under the same roof with me within a month. 
 
 Note (d). Page 93. 
 
 liCvadas are watercourses, by means of which the town of 
 Funchal is well supplied with water from the mountains. 
 The Levada, par excellence, is situated at the back of the 
 town, and forms the margin of a very beautiful valley, by 
 the side of which is a delightful promenade, the view 
 from which is very fine. My favorite spot was at the foot 
 of a waterfall which descends from a rocky ton*ent bed, 
 and forms the base of the cliff upon which is situated the 
 comfortable-looking retreat called Palmyra, the quinta of 
 (I believe) H. H. Temple, Esq. 
 
 Note (^). Page 100. 
 
 These stanzas were written at the grave of Henry Shiel, 
 Esq. (onli/ son of the Right Honorable Richard Lalor Shiel, 
 M.P.) whose mortal remains are covered by a raised tomb 
 
NOTES TO CANTO SECOND. 139 
 
 railed round, which is situated at the west side of the beauti- 
 ful Portuguese cemetery. There are two English cemeteries 
 in Madeira; one for residents, and the other for strangers. 
 The latter is a delightfully quiet, sunny spot. For hours 
 have I stood absorbed in contemplation, gazing upon the 
 flower-bedecked graves of the many youthful victims of con- 
 sumption sleeping within the walls ; and thinking how many 
 there were without the walls, whose last hour was speedily 
 approaching ; and my imagination has often singled out one 
 of the little birds hopping carelessly about, and I have re- 
 peated to myself Keats' beautiful lines, when, addressing 
 the nightingale, he longs for — 
 
 " A beaker, full of the blissful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
 
 And purple stained mouth ; 
 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim. 
 
 ** Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 What thou among thy leaves hast never known — 
 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret. 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
 
 Where palsy shakes a few sad, last grey hairs, 
 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre thin, and dies ; 
 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow. 
 
 And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
 Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
 Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow." 
 
NOTES TO CANTO THIRD. 
 
 Note (a). Page 110. 
 
 '[ Cheerly, boys ! cheerly hi-ho !'' or, as the sailors call it, 
 " chilly boys !'' is one of the most beautiful sea choruses I ever 
 heard. The occasion upon which I first heard it was while 
 dining on board the " Kossendale,^' of Liverpool, then lying 
 in Funchal roads. My friend, Mr. J. Lees, was with me at 
 the time, and the exquisite melody created such a sensation in 
 both of us, that we could not rest till he had arranged it 
 for the piano-forte, and / had put words to it, the words the 
 seamen sung to it being perfectly ridiculous. 
 
 Note (y). Page 114. 
 Extract from my Diary, May 2^th, 1 848. 
 
 " Midnight — I have just left the deck— The sea is perfectly 
 calm — There is just enough wind to carry us along at the 
 rate of three knots an hour — I have been witnessing one of 
 the most splendid sights ever beheld — I was smoking my 
 cigar, and gazing over the lee bow, when my attention was 
 arrested by what appeared to be a vast fire on the sea at some 
 distance ofi", but which was rapidly approaching us— It turned 
 out to be an immense shoal of porpoises, tossing and tumbling 
 a-head of us. Each fish, as it darted by us, left behind it a 
 curved and winding trail of phosphoric fire, resembling a 
 huge serpent. The sight was very ^-and." 
 
NOTES TO CANTO THIRD. 141 
 
 Note (c). Page 115. 
 
 Extract from my Diary, May ^Ith, 1848. 
 
 " Midnight — Been on deck two hours—stormy weather — 
 While enjoying the Avarmth of the fire in the caboose, I was 
 much struck with the deep manly voice of the helmsman, 
 who was singing, what appeared to me at the distance I was 
 oif, to be a very pretty song ; and under the influence of the 
 weather and his song, I gave vent to my feelings in rhyme. 
 When I had finished, I drew a Httle nearer, in order to hear 
 if his song was any thing in the style of my verses. I was 
 soon satisfied. I found the burden of his ditty to be 
 
 *' Some say nay, but I say still, 
 Old England is going down the hill.'* 
 
 From the sublime to the ridiculous, &c. 
 
 Note (d). Page 121. 
 
 It has always been my firm conviction, and recent events 
 have greatly tended to confirm me in it, that Poland will be 
 one day restored to her nationaUty, principally by the sym- 
 pathy and assistance of Prussia. 
 
 Note(e). Page 123. 
 
 Looking at the posture of affairs in Italy at the present 
 time, Lord Byron's prophecy is worth remembering :— 
 
 " Yet Italy ! tho* every other land 
 
 Thy wrongs should ring, and shall from side to side ; 
 
 Mother of arts ! as once of arms, thy hand 
 
 Was then our guardian, and is still our guide. 
 
 Parent of our religion ! whom the wide 
 
 Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven. 
 
 Europe, repentant of her parricide. 
 
 Shall yet redeem thee, and all backward driven, 
 
 Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven.** 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
MISCELLAMOTJS POEMS. 
 
 To Miss C W 
 
 ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 (W^ritten in her Album.) 
 
 Altho' I ne'er have seen thy face, 
 Within my mind its form I trace ; 
 I see thy features plain and clear. 
 Distinct as tho' thyself wert near ; — 
 And in my fancy's wanderings wide, 
 I think that thou art by my side. 
 Attentive — listening silently. 
 Unto the poet's rhapsody — 
 
 Dear Girl ! what wilt thou have me say. 
 On this, to thee important day ? 
 My benison thou hast secure — 
 I wish thee joy — of that thou'rt sure — 
 I must say something — if I preach. 
 Thou wilt not spurn at what I teach — 
 o 
 
146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I'll Speak from that which 1 have learn'd 
 By sage experience — hardly earn'd — 
 
 Thou'rt told, perhaps, that in this life. 
 Nought thou wilt meet, but pain and strife ; 
 That ev'ry turn with woe is fraught. 
 That every sorrow comes unsought. 
 As if our heavenly Sire can see 
 Delight in dealing misery — 
 Believe it not — but let me show, 
 A salve for every mortal woe — 
 
 If it should be thy lot to meet 
 
 The bitter oftener than the sweet ; 
 
 If want should come, with angry froAvn, 
 
 And bow thy gentle spirit down ; 
 
 If sickness hovers o'er thy head. 
 
 And from thy frame sweet health be fled ; 
 
 If sorrow should around thee flow. 
 
 And stamp its furrows on thy brow ; 
 
 If fiU'd thy bosom e'er should prove. 
 
 With pangs of disappointed love ; 
 
 If cruel death should ever send 
 
 Its dart to rob thee of a friend ; 
 
 If thy young heart be fiU'd with grief. 
 
 And nought around can yield relief; 
 
 Bow humbly down beneath the rod. 
 
 And let thy soul commune with God-— 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 147 
 
 If thou a friend shouldst ever want, 
 When friends upon the earth are scant ; 
 If thou should'st ever seek to know. 
 How to be happy here below ; 
 If e'er the wicked arts of earth. 
 Should chase away thy artless mirth. 
 And wither up thy bosom's calm. 
 And thou would'st seek a solid balm — 
 If thou'lt commune with God on hiofh, 
 Thou'lt find for all a remedy — 
 
 For I much suffering have seen. 
 And fiU'd with sorrow oft have been ; 
 But when all has been dark around, 
 And hope nigh dead — I ever found 
 The canker from my bosom driven. 
 By holding sweet converse with heaven. 
 
 Hear now my wish — may all thy life 
 
 Be free from worldly woe and strife ; 
 
 Be always with thee joy and health ; 
 
 (In them thou'lt find a store of wealth ;) 
 
 May thou no cup of sorrow sip ; 
 
 A smile be ever on thy lip ; 
 
 And may thou thro' thy life possess, 
 
 A penny for the pennyless — 
 
 A tear of pity for the sad ; 
 
 An eye to sparkle with the glad ; 
 
148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And that when death thy cheek shall kiss. 
 Thy soul may wend its way to bliss ; 
 And that kind heaven will grant my prayer. 
 That I may meet thy spirit there. 
 
 Adieu ! dear maid — this is my lay — 
 God keep on thy natal day ! 
 
 TO THE " LITTLE GIRL AT HOME." 
 
 Extract from my Diary.— Madeira, November 10, 1847. 
 
 "Sitting at my window this afternoon, there came by 
 a silver-haired veteran, the Captain of the " United States/^ 
 American Frigate, who happening at that instant to meet 
 with a very beautiful English child, suddenly caught up 
 the infant to his bosom, and with much emotion, began pas- 
 sionately to kiss it on the face and hands. He appeai-ed 
 deeply affected, and upon parting with the child, exclaimed, 
 with tears in his eyes, — " 1 cannot help it, it reminds 
 me so much of the little girl at home." — The incident 
 touched me, and led to the foUov/ing (neai'ly extempore) 
 verses." 
 
 Sweet blossom of a shining land, 
 Where holy freedom reigns ; 
 Thy sire hath mov'd a poet's soul. 
 And rous'd his humble strains. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 149 
 
 Thy father's bark at anchor rides 
 Upon a distant sea ; 
 But yet, fair child, tho' far away. 
 His heart is still with thee. 
 
 I lonely at my window sat. 
 My heart was sick and sore ; 
 An exile, tliinking on the home. 
 He might behold no more. 
 
 A fair hair'd lovely child was near. 
 Laughing with infant glee ; 
 And three were gazing on that child. 
 Thy God, thy sire, and me. 
 
 Thy father seized its little hand ; 
 And kiss'd it o'er and o'er. 
 Yes ! fondly kiss'd that little cheek. 
 He ne'er had seen before. 
 
 " Dear child, " he cried, " at sight of thee, 
 " Fond memory will roam 
 " To where I left my own sweet gem, 
 " My little girl at home." 
 
 The veteran heav'd a ling'ring sigh, 
 And sadly turn'd away ! 
 And left the child to sport again. 
 And me to pen my lay. 
 
150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Oh ! never mayst thou raise a pang 
 Within thy father's heart ; 
 Nor cause a blush upon his cheek, 
 Nor bitter tears to start. 
 
 Remember that for thee he braves 
 The tempest and the deep ; 
 And often lifts for thee a prayer 
 When thou art wrapp'd in sleep. 
 
 The winter of his years may come, 
 When thou art woman grown ; 
 And when he needs another's care 
 That task will be thine own. 
 
 The blissful toll affection loves. 
 To thee will then be given ; 
 To be a parent to thy sire. 
 And guide his steps to heaven. 
 
 A poet's blessing on thy head. 
 There may it ever dwell ; 
 God bless thee ! for thy father's sake. 
 And now, dear child, farewell ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 151 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 When life's fair morn becomes o'ercast. 
 With clouds of grief and gloom ; 
 And sorrow's withering wintry blast, 
 Nips all its spring tide bloom — 
 When all around is dark and drear. 
 With sad and sick'ning care 
 Hope — whispers comfort in the ear. 
 And bids us not despair. 
 
 When mid-day comes, and youth's fond dreams 
 
 Are blighted, dead, and gone ; 
 
 And not one ray of comfort beams. 
 
 To cheer a wand'rer on — 
 
 When earth has lost its fairest charms. 
 
 And life is hard to bear ; 
 
 Hope — clasps us fondling in its anns. 
 
 And bids us not despair. 
 
 But when at length life's evening sun 
 The brow with age has prest ; 
 Our toilsome, weary journey done> 
 We seek the grave — to rest — 
 Then sorrow from the heart is driven. 
 And all again is fair ; 
 For Hope — exulting, points to heaven. 
 And tells of comfort there. 
 
152 ' MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 ' LINES, 
 
 ON PARTING WITH A FRIEND IN MADEIRA. 
 
 Here — first we met, upon this foreign shore — 
 Here — now we part, perhaps to meet no more — 
 The vessel rides upon yon' tranquil sea. 
 That bears you in a few short hours from me — 
 Yet ere you go, to God I breathe a prayer. 
 That he may guard you home with special care ; 
 And if there is on earth a wish sincere. 
 True from tke heart, I do record it here ; 
 And one poor word, a thousand such will tell, 
 'Tis short — but utters much— I wish you — well. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 LONDON : 
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ERRATA. 
 
 Page 17, line 3, for "e'er," read ere. 
 
 Page 30, line 21, dele inverted commas. 
 
 Page 69, stanza 31, line 2, for "thoughts," read thought. 
 
 Page 72, stanza 41, line 9, for **it might," read 'tmight. 
 
 Page 73, stanza 43, line 9, for "to" read too. 
 
 Page 119, stanza 43, line 1, dele "(f)." 
 
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