To Miss Moore. From Norfolk, In Virginia, November, 1803.

In days, my Kate, when life was new,     When, lulled with innocence and you,     I heard, in home's beloved shade,     The din the world at distance made;     When, every night my weary head     Sunk on its own unthorned bed,     And, mild as evening's matron hour,     Looks on the faintly shutting flower,     A mother saw our eyelids close,     And blest them into pure repose;     Then, haply if a week, a day,     I lingered from that home away,     How long the little absence seemed!     How bright the look of welcome beamed,     As mute you heard, with eager smile,     My tales of all that past the while!     Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea     Bolls wide between that home and me;     The moon may thrice be born and die,     Ere even that seal can reach mine eye.     Which used so oft, so quick to come,     Still breathing all the breath of home,--     As if, still fresh, the cordial air     From lips beloved were lingering there.     But now, alas,--far different fate!     It comes o'er ocean, slow and late,     When the dear hand that filled its fold     With words of sweetness may lie cold.     But hence that gloomy thought! at last,     Beloved Kate, the waves are past;     I tread on earth securely now,     And the green cedar's living bough     Breathes more refreshment to my eyes     Than could a Claude's divinest dyes.     At length I touch the happy sphere     To liberty and virtue dear,     Where man looks up, and, proud to claim     His rank within the social frame,     Sees a grand system round him roll,     Himself its centre, sun, and soul!     Far from the shocks of Europe--far     From every wild, elliptic star     That, shooting with a devious fire,     Kindled by heaven's avenging ire,     So oft hath into chaos hurled     The systems of the ancient world.     The warrior here, in arms no more     Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er,     And glorying in the freedom won     For hearth and shrine, for sire and son,     Smiles on the dusky webs that hide     His sleeping sword's remembered pride.     While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil,     Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil,     Effacing with her splendid share     The drops that war had sprinkled there.     Thrice happy land! where he who flies     From the dark ills of other skies,     From scorn, or want's unnerving woes.     May shelter him in proud repose;     Hope sings along the yellow sand     His welcome to a patriot land:     The mighty wood, with pomp, receives     The stranger in its world of leaves,     Which soon their barren glory yield     To the warm shed and cultured field;     And he, who came, of all bereft,     To whom malignant fate had left     Nor hope nor friends nor country dear,     Finds home and friends and country here.     Such is the picture, warmly such,     That Fancy long, with florid touch.     Had painted to my sanguine eye     Of man's new world of liberty.     Oh! ask me not, if Truth have yet     Her seal on Fancy's promise set;     If even a glimpse my eyes behold     Of that imagined age of gold;--     Alas, not yet one gleaming trace![1]     Never did youth, who loved a face     As sketched by some fond pencil's skill,     And made by fancy lovelier still,     Shrink back with more of sad surprise,     When the live model met his eyes,     Than I have felt, in sorrow felt,     To find a dream on which I've dwelt     From boyhood's hour, thus fade and flee     At touch of stern reality!     But, courage, yet, my wavering heart!     Blame not the temple's meanest part,[2]     Till thou hast traced the fabric o'er;--     As yet, we have beheld no more     Than just the porch to Freedom's fame;     And, though a sable spot may stain     The vestibule, 'tis wrong, 'tis sin     To doubt the godhead reigns within!     So here I pause--and now, my Kate,     To you, and those dear friends, whose fate     Touches more near this home-sick soul     Than all the Powers from pole to pole,     One word at parting,--in the tone     Most sweet to you, and most my own,     The simple strain I send you here,     Wild though it be, would charm your ear,     Did you but know the trance of thought     In which my mind its numbers caught.     'Twas one of those half-waking dreams,     That haunt me oft, when music seems     To bear my soul in sound along,     And turn its feelings all to song.     I thought of home, the according lays     Came full of dreams of other days;     Freshly in each succeeding note     I found some young remembrance float,     Till following, as a clue, that strain     I wandered back to home, again.     Oh! love the song, and let it oft     Live on your lip, in accents soft.     Say that it tells you, simply well,     All I have bid its wild notes tell,--     Of Memory's dream, of thoughts that yet     Glow with the light of joy that's set,     And all the fond heart keeps in store     Of friends and scenes beheld no more.     And now, adieu!--this artless air,     With a few rhymes, in transcript fair,     Are all the gifts I yet can boast     To send you from Columbia's coast;     But when the sun, with warmer smile.     Shall light me to my destined isle.[3]     You shall have many a cowslip-bell,     Where Ariel slept, and many a shell,     In which that gentle spirit drew     From honey flowers the morning dew.