THE FIRST POETIC PERIOD (continued 2)

1 Alcander died—the rich, the great, the brave; Even such must yield to heaven's severe decree, Death, still at hand, conducts us to the grave, And humbles monarchs as he humbled thee. 2 When, lingering, to his end Alcander drew, Officious friends besieg'd his lofty door, Impatient they the dying man to view And touch that hand they soon must touch no more. 3 "Alas, he's gone!" the sad attendants cry, Fled is the breath that never shall return— "Alas! he's gone!" his tearful friends reply, "Spread the dark crape, and round his pale corpse mourn. 4 "Ye that attend the pompous funeral, due, "In sable vestments let your limbs be clad, "For vulgar deaths a common sorrow shew, "But costly griefs are for the wealthy dead. 5 "Prepare the blessings of the generous vine, "Let bulls and oxen groan beneath the steel, "Throughout the board let choicest dainties shine, "To every guest a generous portion deal." 6 A mighty crowd approach'd the mourning dome, Some came to hear the sermon and the prayer, Some came to shun Xantippe's voice at home, And some with Bacchus to relieve their care. 7 A Levite came, and sigh'd among the rest, A rusty band and tatter'd gown he wore, His leaves he tumbled, and the house he blest, And conn'd his future sermon o'er and o'er. 8 And oft a glance he cast towards the wine That briskly sparkled in the glassy vase, And often drank, and often wish'd to dine, And red as Phœbus glow'd his sultry face. 9 Much did he chatter, and on various themes, He publish'd news that came from foreign climes, He told his jests, and told his last year's dreams, And quoted dull stuff from lord Wilmot's rhymes. 10 And dunn'd the mourners for his parish dues With face of brass, and scrutinizing eye, And threaten'd law-suits if they dar'd refuse To pay his honest earnings punctually. 11 An honest sire, who came in luckless hour To hear the sermon and to see the dead, Presuming on this consecrated hour, Ventur'd to check the parson on that head. 12 Quoth he, "My priest, such conduct is not fit, "For other speech this solemn hour demands: "What if your parish owes its annual debt, "Your parish ready to discharge it stands." 13 No more he said—for charg'd with wounds and pain, The parson's staff, like Jove's own lightning, flew, Which cleft his jaw-bone and his cheek in twain, And from their sockets half his grinders drew. 14 Nor less deceas'd some moments lay the sire Than if from heav'n the forked lightnings thrown Had pierc'd him with their instantaneous fire, And sent him smoking to the world unknown. 15 At last he mov'd, and, weltering in his gore. Thus did the rueful, wounded victim say, "Convey me hence—so bloody and so sore "I cannot wait to hear the parson pray; 16 "And if I did, what pleasure could be mine— "Can he allure me to the world of bliss— "Can he present me at the heavenly shrine "Who breaks my bones, and knocks me down in this? 17 "The scripture says—the text I well recall— "A Priest or Bishop must no striker be, "Then how can such a wicked priest but fall, "Who at a funeral thus has murdered me?" 18 Thus he—But now the sumptuous dinner came, The Levite; boldly seiz'd the nobler place, Beside him sate the woe-struck widow'd dame, Who help'd him drain the brimful china vase. 19 Which now renew'd, he drank that ocean too, Like Polypheme, the boon Ulysses gave; Another came, nor did another do, For still another did the monster crave. 20 With far-fetch'd dainties he regal'd his maw, And prais'd the various meats that crown'd the board: On tender capons did the glutton gnaw, And well his platter with profusion stor'd. 21 But spoke no words of grace—I mark'd him well, I fix'd my eye upon his brazen brow— He look'd like Satan aiming to rebel, Such pride and madness were his inmates now. 22 But not contented with this hectoring priest, Sick of his nonsense, softly I withdrew, And at a calmer table shar'd the feast, To sorrow sacred, and to friendship due. 23 Which now atchiev'd, the tolling bell remote Summon'd the living and the dead to come, And through the dying sea-breeze swell'd the note, Dull on the ear, and lengthening through the gloom. 24 The bier was brought, the costly coffin laid, And prayers were mutter'd in a doleful tone, While the sad pall, above the body spread, From many a tender breast drew many a groan. 25 The Levite, too, some tears of Bacchus shed— Reeling before the long procession, he Strode like a general at his army's head, His gown in tatters, and his wig—ah me! 26 The words of faith in both his hands he bore, Prayers, cut and dry, by ancient prelates made, Who, bigots while they liv'd, could do no more Than leave them still by bigots to be said. 27 But he admir'd them all!—he read with joy St. Athanasius in his thundering creed, And curs'd the men whom Satan did employ To make King Charles, that heav'n-born martyr, bleed. 28 At last they reach'd the spiry building high, And soon they enter'd at the eastern gate— The parson said his prayers most learnedly, And mutter'd more than memory can relate. 29 Then through the temple's lengthy aisles they went, Approaching still the pulpit's painted door, From whence, on Sundays, many a vow was sent, And sermons plunder'd from some prelate's store. 30 Here, as of right, the priest prepar'd to rise, And leave the corpse and gaping crowd below, Like sultry Phœbus glar'd his flaming eyes, Less fierce the stars of Greenland evenings glow. 31 Up to the pulpit strode he with an air, And from the Preacher thus his text he read: "More I esteem, and better is by far "A dog existing than a lion dead. 32 "Go, eat thy dainties with a joyful heart, "And quaff thy wine with undissembled glee, "For he who did these heavenly gifts impart "Accepts thy prayers, thy gifts, thy vows, and thee."

33 These truths, my friends, congenial to my soul, Demand a faithful and attentive ear— No longer for your 'parted friend condole, No longer shed the tributary tear. 34 Curs'd be the sobs, these useless floods of woe That vainly flow for the departed dead— If doom'd to wander on the coasts below, What are to him these seas of grief you shed? 35 If heaven in pleasure doth his hours employ— If sighs and sorrows reach a place like this, They blast his glories, and they damp his joy, They make him wretched in the midst of bliss. 36 And can you yet—and here he smote his breast— And can you yet bemoan that torpid mass Which now for death and desolation drest, Prepares the deep gulph of the grave to pass. 37 You fondly mourn—I mourn Alcander too, Alcander late the living, not the dead; His casks I broach'd, his liquors once I drew, And freely there on choicest dainties fed. 38 But vanish'd are they now!—no more he calls, No more invites me to his plenteous board; No more I caper at his splendid balls, Or drain his cellars, with profusion stor'd. 39 Then why, my friends, for yonder senseless clay, That ne'er again befriends me, should I mourn? Yon' simple slaves that through the cane-lands stray Are more to me than monarchs in the urn. 40 The joys of wine, immortal as my theme, To days of bliss the aspiring soul invite; Life, void of this, a punishment I deem, A Greenland winter, without heat or light. 41 Count all the trees that crown Jamaica's hills, Count all the stars that through the heavens you see. Count every drop that the wide ocean fills; Then count the pleasures Bacchus yields to me. 42 The aids of wine for toiling man were meant; I prize the smiling Caribbean bowl— Enjoy those gifts that bounteous nature lent, Death to thy cares, refreshing to the soul. 43 Here fixt to-day in plenty's smiling vales, Just as the month revolves we laugh or groan, September comes, seas swell with horrid gales, And old Port Royal's fate may be our own. 44 A few short years, at best, will bound our span, Wretched and few, the Hebrew exile said; Live while you may, be jovial while you can, Death as a debt to nature must be paid. 45 When nature fails, the man exists no more, And death is nothing but an empty name, Spleen's genuine offspring at the midnight hour, The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream. 46 You ask me where these mighty hosts have fled, That once existed on this changeful ball?— If aught remains, when mortal man is dead, Where, ere their birth they were, they now are all.[A]

47 Like insects busy, in a summer's day, We toil and squabble, to increase our pain, Night comes at last, and, weary of the fray, To dust and darkness all return again. 48 Then envy not, ye sages too precise, The drop from life's gay tree, that damps our woe, Noah himself, the wary and the wise, A vineyard planted, and the vines did grow: 49 Of social soul was he—the grape he press'd, And drank the juice oblivious to his care; Sorrow he banish'd from his place of rest, And sighs and sobbing had no entrance there. 50 Such bliss be ours through every changing scene; The glowing face bespeaks the glowing heart; If heaven be joy, wine is to heaven a-kin, Since wine, on earth, can heavenly joys impart. 51 Mere glow-worms are we all, a moment shine; I, like the rest, in giddy circles run, And Grief shall say, when I this life resign, "His glass is empty, and his frolics done!" 52 He said, and ceas'd—the funeral anthem then From the deep choir and hoarse-ton'd organ came; Such are the honours paid to wealthy men, But who for Irus would attempt the same? 53 Now from the church returning, as they went, Again they reach'd Alcander's painted hall, Their sighs concluded, and their sorrows spent, They to oblivion gave the Funeral. 54 The holy man, by bishops holy made, Tun'd up to harmony his trembling strings, To various songs in various notes he play'd, And, as he plays, as gallantly he sings. 55 The widow'd dame, less pensive than before, To sprightly tunes as sprightly did advance, Her lost Alcander scarce remember'd more; And thus the funeral ended in a dance.

Sweet orange grove, the fairest of the isle, In thy soft shade luxuriously reclin'd, Where, round my fragrant bed, the flowrets smile, In sweet delusions I deceive my mind. But Melancholy's glooms assail my breast, For potent nature reigns despotic here;— A nation ruin'd, and a world oppress'd, Might rob the boldest Stoic of a tear.

1 Sick of thy northern glooms, come, shepherd, seek More equal climes, and a serener sky: Why shouldst thou toil amid thy frozen ground, Where half year's snows, a barren prospect lie, 2 When thou mayst go where never frost was seen, Or north-west winds with cutting fury blow, Where never ice congeal'd the limpid stream, Where never mountain tipt its head with snow? 3 Twice seven days prosperous gales thy barque shall bear To isles that flourish in perpetual green, Where richest herbage glads each shady vale, And ever verdant plants on every hill are seen. 4 Nor dread the dangers of the billowy deep, Autumnal winds shall safely waft thee o'er; Put off the timid heart, or, man unblest, Ne'er shalt thou reach this gay enchanting shore. 5 Thus Judah's tribes beheld the promis'd land, While Jordan's angry waters swell'd between; Thus trembling on the brink I see them stand, Heav'n's type in view, the Canaanitish green. 6 Thus, some mean souls, in spite of age and care, Are so united to this globe below, They never wish to cross death's dusky main, That parting them and happiness doth flow. 7 Though reason's voice might whisper to the soul That nobler climes for man the gods design— Come, shepherd, haste—the northern breezes blow, No more the slumbering winds thy barque confine. 8 From the vast caverns of old ocean's bed, Fair Santa Cruz, arising, laves her waist, The threat'ning waters roar on every side, For every side by ocean is embrac'd. 9 Sharp, craggy rocks repel the surging brine, Whose cavern'd sides by restless billows wore, Resemblance claim to that remoter isle [Eolia Where once the winds' proud lord the sceptre bore. 10 Betwixt old Cancer and the mid-way line, In happiest climate lies this envied isle, Trees bloom throughout the year, streams ever flow, And fragrant Flora wears a lasting smile. 11 Cool, woodland streams from shaded clifts descend, The dripping rock no want of moisture knows, Supply'd by springs that on the skies depend, That fountain feeding as the current flows. 12 Such were the isles which happy Flaccus sung, Where one tree blossoms while another bears, Where spring forever gay, and ever young, Walks her gay round through her unwearied years. 13 Such were the climes which youthful Eden saw Ere crossing fates destroy'd her golden reign— Reflect upon thy loss, unhappy man, And seek the vales of Paradise again. 14 No lowering skies are here—the neighbouring sun Clear and unveil'd, his brilliant journey goes, Each morn emerging from the ambient main, And sinking there each evening to repose. 15 In June's fair month the spangled traveller gains The utmost limits of his northern way, And blesses with his beams cold lands remote, Sad Greenland's coast, and Hudson's frozen bay. 16 The shivering swains of those unhappy climes Behold the side-way monarch through the trees, We feel his fiercer heat, his vertic beams, Temper'd with cooling winds and trade-wind breeze. 17 Yet, though so near heav'n's blazing lamp doth run, We court the beam that sheds the golden day, And hence are called the children of the sun, Who, without fainting, bear his downward ray. 18 No threatening tides upon our island rise, Gay Cynthia scarce disturbs the ocean here, No waves approach her orb, and she, as kind, Attracts no water to her silver sphere. 19 The happy waters boast, of various kinds, Unnumber'd myriads of the scaly race, Sportive they glide above the delug'd sand, Gay as their clime, in ocean's ample vase. 20 Some streak'd with burnish'd gold, resplendent glare, Some cleave the limpid deep, all silver'd o'er, Some, clad in living green, delight the eye, Some red, some blue; of mingled colours more. 21 Here glides the spangled Dolphin through the deep, The giant-carcas'd whales at distance stray. The huge green turtles wallow through the wave, Well pleas'd alike with land or water, they. 22 The Rainbow cuts the deep, of varied green, The well fed Grouper lurks remote, below, The swift Bonetta coasts the watry scene, The diamond coated Angels kindle as they go. 23 Delicious to the taste, salubrious food, Which might some temperate studious sage allure To curse the fare of his abstemious school, And turn, for once, a cheerful Epicure. 24 Unhurt, may'st thou this luscious food enjoy, To fulness feast upon the scaly kind; These, well selected from a thousand more, Delight the taste, and leave no plague behind. 25 Nor think Hygeia[B] is a stranger here; To sensual souls the climate may fatal prove, Anguish and death attend, and pain severe, The midnight revel, and licentious love.

26 Full many a swain, in youth's serenest bloom, Is borne untimely to this alien clay, Constrain'd to slumber in a foreign tomb, Far from his friends, his country far away. 27 Yet, if devoted to a sensual soul, If fondly their own ruin they create, These victims to the banquet and the bowl Must blame their folly only, not their fate. 28 But thou, who first drew breath in northern air, At early dawn ascend the sloping hills, And oft' at noon to lime tree shades repair, Where some soft stream from neighbouring groves distils. 29 And with it mix the liquid of the lime, The old ag'd essence of the generous cane, And sweetest syrups of this liquorish clime, And drink, to cool thy thirst, and drink again. 30 This happy beverage, joy inspiring bowl, Dispelling far the shades of mental night, Wakes bright ideas on the raptur'd soul, And sorrow turns to pleasure and delight. 31 Sweet verdant isle, through thy dark woods I rove, And learn the nature of each native tree, The fustick hard, the poisonous manchineel, Which for its fragrant apple pleaseth thee: 32 Alluring to the smell, fair to the eye, But deadliest poison in the taste is found— O shun the dangerous tree, nor taste, like Eve, This interdicted fruit in Eden's ground. 33 The lowly mangrove, fond of watry soil, The white bark'd gregory, rising high in air, The mastick in the woods you may descry, Tamarind, and lofty plumb-trees flourish there. 34 Sweet orange groves in lonely vallies rise And drop their fruits, unnotic'd and unknown, And cooling acid limes in hedges grow, The juicy lemons swell in shades their own. 35 Once in these groves divine Aurelia stray'd!— Then, conscious nature, smiling, look'd more gay; But soon she left the dear delightful shade, The shade, neglected, droops and dies away, 36 And pines for her return, but pines in vain, In distant isles belov'd Aurelia died, Pride of the plains, ador'd by every swain, Sweet warbler of the woods, and of the woods the pride. 37 Philander early left this rural maid, Nor yet return'd, by fate compell'd to roam, But absent from the heavenly girl he stray'd, Her charms forgot, forgot his native home. 38 O fate severe, to seize the nymph so soon, The nymph, for whom a thousand shepherds sigh, And in the space of one revolving moon To doom the fair one and her swain to die! 39 Sweet, spungy plumbs on trees wide spreading hang, Bell-apples here, suspended, shade the ground, Plump grenadilloes and güavas grey, With melons in each plain and lawn abound. 40 The conic form'd cashew, of juicy kind, Which bears at once an apple and a nut; Whose poisonous coat, indignant to the lip, Doth in its cell a wholesome kernel shut. 41 The prince of fruits, whom some jayama call, Anana some, the happy flavour'd pine; In which unite the tastes and juices all Of apple, peach, quince, grape, and nectarine, 42 Grows to perfection here, and spreads his crest; His diadem toward the parent sun; His diadem, in fiery blossoms drest, Stands arm'd with swords from potent nature won. 43 Yon' cotton shrubs with bursting knobs behold, Their snow white locks these humble groves array; On slender trees the blushing coffee hangs Like thy fair cherry, and would tempt thy stay. 44 Safe from the winds, in deep retreats, they rise; Their utmost summit may thy arm attain; Taste the moist fruit, and from thy closing eyes Sleep shall retire, with all his drowsy train. 45 The spicy berry, they güava call, Swells in the mountains on a stripling tree; These some admire, and value more than all, My humble verse, besides, unfolds to thee. 46 The smooth white cedar, here, delights the eye, The bay-tree, with its aromatic green, The sea-side grapes, sweet natives of the sand, And pulse, of various kinds, on trees are seen. 47 Here mingled vines that downward shadows cast, Here, cluster'd grapes from loaded boughs depend, Their leaves no frosts, their fruits no cold winds blast, But, rear'd by suns, to time alone they bend. 48 The plantane and banana flourish here, Of hasty growth, and love to fix their root Where some soft stream of ambling water flows, To yield full moisture to their cluster'd fruit. 49 No other trees so vast a leaf can boast, So broad, so long—through these refresh'd I stray, And though the noon-sun all his radiance shed, These friendly leaves shall shade me all the way, 50 And tempt the cooling breeze to hasten there, With its sweet odorous breath to charm the grove; High shades and verdant seats, while underneath A little stream by mossy banks doth rove, 51 Where once the Indian dames slept with their swains, Or fondly kiss'd the moon-light eves away; The lovers fled, the tearful stream remains, And only I console it with my lay. 52 Among the shades of yonder whispering grove The green palmittoes mingle, tall and fair, That ever murmur, and forever move, Fanning with wavy bough the ambient air. 53 Pomegranates grace the wild, and sweet-sops there Ready to fall, require thy helping hand, Nor yet neglect the papaw or mamee Whose slighted trees with fruits unheeded stand. 54 Those shaddocks juicy shall thy taste delight, And yon' high fruits, the richest of the wood, That cling in clusters to the mother tree, The cocoa-nut; rich, milky, healthful food. 55 O grant me, gods, if yet condemn'd to stray, At least to spend life's sober evening here, To plant a grove where winds yon' shelter'd bay, And pluck these fruits that frost nor winter fear. 56 Cassada shrubs abound—transplanted here From every clime, exotic blossoms blow; Here Asia plants her flowers, here Europe seeds, And hyperborean plants, un-winter'd, grow. 57 Here, a new herbage glads the generous steed, Mules, goats, and sheep enjoy these pastures fair, And for thy hedges, nature has decreed, Guards of thy toils, the date and prickly pear. 58 But chief the glory of these Indian isles Springs from the sweet, uncloying sugar-cane, Hence comes the planter's wealth, hence commerce sends Such floating piles to traverse half the main. 59 Whoe'er thou art that leav'st thy native shore, And shall to fair West India climates come, Taste not the enchanting plant—to taste forbear, If ever thou wouldst reach thy much lov'd home. 60 Ne'er through the Isle permit thy feet to rove, Or, if thou dost, let prudence lead the way, Forbear to taste the virtues of the cane, Forbear to taste what will complete thy stay. 61 Whoever sips of this enchanting juice, Delicious nectar, fit for Jove's own hall, Returns no more from his lov'd Santa Cruz, But quits his friends, his country, and his all. 62 And thinks no more of home—Ulysses so Dragg'd off by force his sailors from that shore Where lotos grew, and, had not strength prevail'd, They never would have sought their country more. 63 No annual toil inters this thrifty plant, The stalk lopt off, the freshening showers prolong, To future years, unfading and secure, The root so vigorous, and the juice so strong. 64 Unnumber'd plants, besides, these climates yield, And grass peculiar to the soil, that bears Ten thousand varied herbs, array the field, This glads thy palate, that thy health repairs. 65 Along the shore a wondrous flower is seen, Where rocky ponds receive the surging wave, Some drest in yellow, some array'd in green, Beneath the water their gay branches lave. 66 This mystic plant, with its bewitching charms, Too surely springs from some enchanted bower; Fearful it is, and dreads impending harms, And Animal the natives call the flower. 67 From the smooth rock its little branches rise, The objects of thy view, and that alone, Feast on its beauties with thy ravish'd eyes, But aim to touch it, and—the flower is gone. 68 Nay, if thy shade but intercept the beam That gilds their boughs beneath the briny lake, Swift they retire, like a deluding dream, And even a shadow for destruction take. 69 Warn'd by experience, seek not thou to gain The magic plant thy curious hand invades; Returning to the light, it mocks thy pain, Deceives all grasp, and seeks its native shades. 70 On yonder steepy hill, fresh harvests rise, Where the dark tribe from Afric's sun-burnt plain Oft o'er the ocean turn their wishful eyes To isles remote high looming o'er the main, 71 And view soft seats of ease and fancied rest, Their native groves new painted on the eye, Where no proud misers their gay hours molest, No lordly despots pass unsocial by. 72 See yonder slave that slowly bends this way, With years, and pain, and ceaseless toil opprest, Though no complaining words his woes betray, The eye dejected proves the heart distrest. 73 Perhaps in chains he left his native shore, Perhaps he left a helpless offspring there, Perhaps a wife, that he must see no more, Perhaps a father, who his love did share. 74 Curs'd be the ship that brought him o'er the main, And curs'd the hands who from his country tore, May she be stranded, ne'er to float again, May they be shipwreck'd on some hostile shore— 75 O gold accurst, of every ill the spring, For thee compassion flies the darken'd mind, Reason's plain dictates no conviction bring, And passion only sways all human kind. 76 O gold accurst! for thee we madly run With murderous hearts across the briny flood, Seek foreign climes beneath a foreign sun, And there exult to shed a brother's blood. 77 But thou, who own'st this sugar-bearing soil, To whom no good the great First Cause denies, Let freeborn hands attend thy sultry toil, And fairer harvests to thy view shall rise. 78 The teeming earth shall mightier stores disclose Than ever struck thy longing eyes before, And late content shall shed a soft repose, Repose, so long a stranger at thy door. 79 Give me some clime, the favourite of the sky, Where cruel slavery never sought to rein— But shun the theme, sad muse, and tell me why These abject trees lie scatter'd o'er the plain? 80 These isles, lest nature should have prov'd too kind, Or man have sought his happiest heaven below, Are torn with mighty winds, fierce hurricanes, Nature convuls'd in every shape of woe. 81 Nor scorn yon' lonely vale of trees so reft; There plantane groves late grew of lively green, The orange flourish'd, and the lemon bore, The genius of the isle dwelt there unseen. 82 Wild were the skies, affrighted nature groan'd As though approach'd her last decisive day, Skies blaz'd around, and bellowing winds had nigh Dislodg'd these cliffs, and tore yon' hills away. 83 O'er the wild main, dejected and afraid, The trembling pilot lash'd his helm a-lee, Or, swiftly scudding, ask'd thy potent aid, Dear pilot of the Galilëan sea. 84 Low hung the clouds, distended with the gale The clouds dark brooding wing'd their circling flight, Tremendous thunders join'd the hurricane, Daughter of chaos and eternal night. 85 And how, alas! could these fair trees withstand The wasteful madness of so fierce a blast, That storm'd along the plain, seiz'd every grove, And delug'd with a sea this mournful waste. 86 That plantane grove, where oft I fondly stray'd, Thy darts, dread Phœbus, in those glooms to shun, Is now no more a refuge or a shade, Is now with rocks and deep sands over-run. 87 Those late proud domes of splendour, pomp and ease No longer strike the view, in grand attire; But, torn by winds, flew piece-meal to the seas, Nor left one nook to lodge the astonish'd squire. 88 But other groves the hand of Time shall raise, Again shall nature smile, serenely gay, So soon each scene revives, why should I leave These green retreats, o'er the dark seas to stray? 89 For I must go where the mad pirate roves, A stranger on the inhospitable main, Torn from the scenes of Hudson's sweetest groves, Led by false hope, and expectation vain. 90 There endless plains deject the wearied eye, And hostile winds incessant toil prepare; And should loud bellowing storms all art defy, The manly heart alone must conquer there. 91 On these blue hills, to pluck the opening flowers, Might yet awhile the unwelcome task delay, And these gay scenes prolong the fleeting hours To aid bright Fancy on some future day. 92 Thy vales, Bermuda, and thy sea-girt groves, Can never like these southern forests please; And, lash'd by stormy waves, you court in vain The northern shepherd to your cedar trees. 93 Not o'er those isles such equal planets rule, All, but the cedar, dread the wintry blast: Too well thy charms the banish'd Waller sung; Too near the pilot's star thy doom is cast. 94 Far o'er the waste of yonder surgy field My native climes in fancied prospect lie, Now hid in shades, and now by clouds conceal'd, And now by tempests ravish'd from my eye. 95 There, triumphs to enjoy, are, Britain, thine, There, thy proud navy awes the pillag'd shore; Nor sees the day when nations shall combine That pride to humble and our rights restore. 96 Yet o'er the globe shouldst thou extend thy reign, Here may thy conquering arms one grotto spare; Here—though thy conquest vex—in spite of pain, I quaff the enlivening glass, in spite of care. 97 What, though we bend to a tyrannic crown; Still Nature's charms in varied beauty shine— What though we own the proud imperious Dane, Gold is his sordid care, the Muses mine. 98 Winter, and winter's glooms are far remov'd; Eternal spring with smiling summer join'd;— Absence and death, and heart-corroding care, Why should they cloud the sun-shine of the mind? 99 But, shepherd, haste, and leave behind thee far Thy bloody plains, and iron glooms above, Quit the cold northern star, and here enjoy, Beneath the smiling skies, this land of love. 100 The drowsy pelican wings home his way, The misty eve sits heavy on the sea, And though yon' sail drags slowly o'er the main, Say, shall a moment's gloom discourage thee? 101 To-morrow's sun now paints the faded scene, Though deep in ocean sink his western beams, His spangled chariot shall ascend more clear, More radiant from the drowsy land of dreams. 102 Of all the isles the neighbouring ocean bears, None can with this their equal landscapes boast: What could we do on Saba's cloudy height; Or what could please on 'Statia's barren coast? 103 Couldst thou content on rough Tortola stray, Confest the fairest of the Virgin train; Or couldst thou on these rocky summits play Where high St. John stands frowning o'er the main? 104 Haste, shepherd, haste—Hesperian fruits for thee, And cluster'd grapes from mingled boughs depend— What pleasure in thy forests can there be That, leafless now, to every tempest bend? 105 To milder stars, and skies of clearer blue, Sworn foe to arms, at least a-while repair, And, till to mightier force proud Britain bends, Despise her triumphs, and deceive thy care. 106 Soon shall the genius of the fertile soil A new creation to thy view unfold; Admire the works of Nature's magic hand, But scorn that vulgar bait, all potent gold. 107 Yet, if persuaded by no lay of mine, You still admire your climes of frost and snow, And pleas'd, prefer above our southern groves The darksome forests, that around thee grow: 108 Still there remain—thy native air enjoy, Repell the tyrant who thy peace invades, While, pleas'd, I trace the vales of Santa Cruz, And sing with rapture her inspiring shades.

There is a book, tho' not a book of rhymes, Where truth severe records a nation's crimes;— To check such monarchs as with brutal might Wanton in blood, and trample on the right.

Rejoice, O Death!—Britannia's tyrant sends From German plains his myriads to our shore; The Caledonian with the English joined:— Bring them, ye winds, but waft them back no more. To these far climes with stately step they come, Resolved all prayers, all prowess to defy; Smit with the love of countries not their own, They come, indeed, to conquer—not to die. In the slow breeze (I hear their funeral song,) The dance of ghosts the infernal tribes prepare: To hell's dark mansions haste, ye abandoned throng, Drinking from German sculls old Odin's beer. From dire Cesarea[A] forced, these slaves of kings, Quick, let them take their way on eagle's wings: To thy strong posts, Manhattan's isle, repair, To meet the vengeance that awaits them there!

By Babel's streams we sate and wept, When Sion bade our sorrows flow; Our harps on lofty willows slept That near those distant waters grow: The willows high, the waters clear, Beheld our toils and sorrows there. The cruel foe, that captive led Our nation from their native soil, The tyrant foe, by whom we bled, Required a song, as well as toil: "Come, with a song your sorrows cheer, "A song, that Sion loved to hear." How shall we, cruel tyrant, raise A song on such a distant shore?— If I forget my Sion's praise, May my right hand assume no more To strike the silver sounding string, And thence the slumbering music bring. If I forget that happy home, My perjured tongue, forbear to move! My eyes, be closed in endless gloom— My joy, my rapture, and my love! No rival grief my mind can share, For thou shalt reign unrivalled there. Remember, Lord, that hated foe (When conquered Sion drooped her head) Who laughing at our deepest woe, Thus to our tears and sorrows said, "From its proud height degrade her wall, "Destroy her towers—and ruin all." Thou, Babel's offspring, hated race, May some avenging monster seize, And dash your venom in your face For crimes and cruelties like these: And, deaf to pity's melting moan, With infant blood stain every stone.

To him who would relate the story right, A mind supreme should dictate, or indite.— Yes!—justly to record the tale of fame, A muse from heaven should touch the soul with flame, Some powerful spirit, in superior lays, Should tell the conflicts of these stormy days!

'Tis done! and Britain for her madness sighs— Take warning, tyrants, and henceforth be wise, If o'er mankind man gives you regal sway, Take not the rights of human kind away. When God from chaos gave this world to be, Man then he formed, and formed him to be free, In his own image stampt the favourite race— How darest thou, tyrant, the fair stamp deface! When on mankind you fix your abject chains, No more the image of that God remains; O'er a dark scene a darker shade is drawn, His work dishonoured, and our glory gone! When first Britannia sent her hostile crew To these far shores, to ravage and subdue, We thought them gods, and almost seemed to say No ball could pierce them, and no dagger slay— Heavens! what a blunder—half our fears were vain; These hostile gods at length have quit the plain, On neighbouring isles the storm of war they shun, Happy, thrice happy, if not quite undone. Yet soon, in dread of some impending woe, Even from these islands shall these ruffians go— This be their doom, in vengeance for the slain, To pass their days in poverty and pain; For such base triumphs, be it still their lot To triumph only o'er the rebel Scot, And to their insect isle henceforth confined No longer lord it o'er the human kind.— But, by the fates, who still prolong their stay, And gather vengeance to conclude their day, Yet, ere they go, the angry Muse shall tell The treasured woes that in her bosom swell:— Proud, fierce, and bold, O Jove! who would not laugh To see these bullies worshipping a calf: But they are slaves who spurn at Reason's rules; And men, once slaves, are soon transformed to fools.— To recommend what monarchies have done, They bring, for witness, David and his son; How one was brave, the other just and wise, And hence our plain Republics they despise; But mark how oft, to gratify their pride, The people suffered, and the people died; Though one was wise, and one Goliah slew, Kings are the choicest curse that man e'er knew! Hail, worthy Briton!—how enlarged your fame; How great your glory, terrible your name; "Queen of the isles, and empress of the main,"— Heaven grant you all these mighty things again; But first insure the gaping crowd below That you less cruel, and more just may grow: If fate, vindictive for the sins of man, Had favour shown to your infernal plan, How would your nation have exulted here, And scorned the widow's sigh, the orphan's tear! How had your prince, of all bad men the worst, Laid worth and virtue prostrate in the dust! A second Sawney[A] had he shone to-day, A world subdued, and murder but his play; How had that prince, contemning right or law, Glutted with blood his foul, voracious maw: In him we see the depths of baseness joined, Whate'er disgraced the dregs of human kind; Cain, Nimrod, Nero—fiends in human guise, Herod, Domitian—these in judgment rise, And, envious of his deeds, I hear them say None but a George could be more vile than they. Swoln though he was with wealth, revenge, and pride, How could he dream that heaven was on his side— Did he not see, when so decreed by fate, They placed the crown upon his royal pate, Did he not see the richest jewel fall—[B] Dire was the omen, and astonished all.— That gem no more shall brighten and adorn; No more that gem by British kings be worn, Or swell to wonted heights of fair renown The fading glories of their boasted crown. Yet he to arms, and war, and blood inclined, (A fair-day warrior with a feeble mind, Fearless, while others meet the shock of fate, And dare that death, which clips his thread too late.) He to the fane (O hypocrite!) did go, While not an angel there but was his foe, There did he kneel, and sigh, and sob, and pray, Yet not to lave his thousand sins away, Far other motives swayed his spotted soul; 'Twas not for those the secret sorrow stole Down his pale cheek—'twas vengeance and despair Dissolved his eye, and planted sorrow there;— How could he hope to bribe the impartial sky By his base prayers, and mean hypocrisy?— Heaven still is just, and still abhors all crimes, Not acts like George, the Nero of our times. What were his prayers—his prayers could be no more Than a thief's wishes to recruit his store:— Such prayers could never reach the worlds above; They were but curses in the ear of Jove;— You prayed that conquest might your arms attend, And crush that freedom virtue did defend, That the fierce Indian, rousing from his rest, Might these new regions with his flames invest, With scalps and tortures aggravate our woe, And to the infernal world dismiss your foe. No mines of gold our fertile country yields, But mighty harvests crown the loaded fields, Hence, trading far, we gained the golden prize, Which, though our own, bewitched their greedy eyes— For that they ravaged India's climes before, And carried death to Asia's utmost shore— Clive was your envied slave, in avarice bold— He mowed down nations for his dearer gold; The fatal gold could give no true content, He mourned his murders, and to Tophet went. Led on by lust of lucre and renown, Burgoyne came marching with his thousands down, High were his thoughts, and furious his career, Puffed with self-confidence, and pride severe, Swoln with the idea of his future deeds, Onward to ruin each advantage leads: Before his hosts his heaviest curses flew, And conquered worlds rose hourly to his view: His wrath, like Jove's, could bear with no controul, His words bespoke the mischief in his soul; To fight was not this general's only trade, He shined in writing, and his wit displayed— To awe the more with titles of command He told of forts he ruled in Scottish land;— Queen's colonel as he was, he did not know That thorns and thistles, mixed with honours, grow; In Britain's senate, though he held a place, All did not save him from one long disgrace, One stroke of fortune that convinced them all That men could conquer, and lieutenants fall. Foe to the rights of man, proud plunderer, say Had conquest crowned you on that mighty day When you, to Gates, with sorrow, rage, and shame Resigned your conquests, honours, arms, and fame, When at his feet Britannia's wreathes you threw, And the sun sickened at a sight so new; Had you been victor—what a waste of woe! What souls had vanished to where souls do go! What dire distress had marked your fatal way, What deaths on deaths disgraced that dismal day! Can laurels flourish in a soil of blood, Or on those laurels can fair honours bud— Cursed be that wretch who murder makes his trade, Cursed be all wars that e'er ambition made! What murdering Tory now relieves your grief, Or plans new conquests for his favourite chief; Designs still dark employ that ruffian race, Beasts of your choosing, and our own disgrace, So vile a crew the world ne'er saw before, And grant, ye pitying heavens, it may no more: If ghosts from hell infest our poisoned air, Those ghosts have entered their base bodies here; Murder and blood is still their dear delight— Scream round their roofs, ye ravens of the night! Whene'er they wed, may demons and despair, And grief and woe, and blackest night be there; Fiends leagued from hell the nuptial lamp display, Swift to perdition light them on their way, Round the wide world their devilish squadrons chace, To find no realm, that grants one resting place. Far to the north, on Scotland's utmost end An isle there lies, the haunt of every fiend, No shepherds there attend their bleating flocks, But withered witches rove among the rocks; Shrouded in ice, the blasted mountains show Their cloven heads, to daunt the seas below; The lamp of heaven in his diurnal race There scarcely deigns to unveil his radiant face, Or if one day he circling treads the sky He views this island with an angry eye, Or ambient fogs their broad, moist wings expand, Damp his bright ray, and cloud the infernal land; The blackening winds incessant storms prolong, Dull as their night, and dreary as my song; When stormy winds and gales refuse to blow, Then from the dark sky drives the unpitying snow; When drifting snows from iron clouds forbear, Then down the hail-stones rattle through the air— There screeching owls, and screaming vultures rest, And not a tree adorns its barren breast; No peace, no rest, the elements bestow, But seas forever rage, and storms forever blow. There, Loyals, there, with loyal hearts retire, There pitch your tents, and kindle there your fire; There desert Nature will her stings display, And fiercest hunger on your vitals prey, And with yourselves let John Burgoyne retire To reign the monarch, whom your hearts admire. Britain, at last to arrest your lawless hand, Rises the genius of a generous land, Our injured rights bright Gallia's prince defends, And from this hour that prince and we are friends; Feuds, long upheld, are vanished from our view. Once we were foes—but for the sake of you— Britain, aspiring Briton, now must bend— Can she at once with France and us contend, When we alone, remote from foreign aid, Her armies captured, and distressed her trade? Britain and we no more in combat join, No more, as once, in every sea combine; Dead is that friendship which did mutual burn, Fled is the sceptre, never to return; By sea and land, perpetual foes we meet, Our cause more honest, and our hearts as great; Lost are these regions to Britannia's reign, Nor need these strangers of their loss complain,[163] Since all, that here with greedy eyes they view, From our own toil to wealth and empire grew. Our hearts are ravished from our former queen Far as the ocean God hath placed between, They strive in vain to join this mighty mass Torn by convulsions from its native place. As well might men to flaming Hecla join The huge high Alps, or towering Appenine: In vain they send their half-commissioned tribe, And whom they cannot conquer, strive to bribe; Their pride and madness burst our union chain, Nor shall the unwieldy mass unite again. Nor think that France sustains our cause alone; With gratitude her helping hand we own, But hear, ye nations—Truth herself can say We bore the heat and danger of the day: She calmly viewed the tumult from afar, We braved each insult, and sustained the war: Oft drove the foe, or forced their hosts to yield, Or left them more than once a dear bought field— 'Twas then, at last, on Jersey plains distrest, We swore to seek the mountains of the west, There a free empire for our seed obtain, A terror to the slaves that might remain.[164] Peace you demand, and vainly wish to find Old leagues renewed, and strength once more combined— Yet shall not all your base dissembling art Deceive the tortures of a bleeding heart— Yet shall not all your mingled prayers that rise Wash out your crimes, or bribe the avenging skies; Full many a corpse lies mouldering on the plain That ne'er shall see its little brood again: See, yonder lies, all breathless, cold, and pale, Drenched in her gore, Lavinia of the vale;[C] The cruel Indian seized her life away, As the next morn began her bridal day!— This deed alone our just revenge would claim, Did not ten thousand more your sons defame. Returned, a captive, to my native shore, How changed I find those scenes that pleased before! How changed those groves where fancy loved to stray, When spring's young blossoms bloom'd along the way; From every eye distils the frequent tear, From every mouth some doleful tale I hear! Some mourn a father, brother, husband, friend: Some mourn, imprisoned in their native land, In sickly ships what numerous hosts confin'd At once their lives and liberties resigned: In dreary dungeons woeful scenes have passed, Long in the historian's page the tale will last, As long as spring renews the flowery wood, As long as breezes curl the yielding flood!— Some sent to India's sickly climes afar, To dig, with slaves, for buried diamonds there, There left to sicken in a land of woe Where o'er scorched hills infernal breezes blow, Whose every blast some dire contagion brings, Fevers or death on its destructive wings, 'Till fate relenting, its last arrows drew, Brought death to them, and infamy to you. Pests of mankind! remembrance shall recall And paint these horrors to the view of all; Heaven has not turned to its own works a foe Nor left to monsters these fair realms below, Else had your arms more wasteful vengeance spread, And these gay plains been dyed a deeper red. O'er Britain's isle a thousand woes impend, Too weak to conquer, govern, or defend, To liberty she holds pretended claim— The substance we enjoy, and they the name; Her prince, surrounded by a host of slaves, Still claims dominion o'er the vagrant waves: Such be his claims o'er all the world beside,— An empty nothing—madness, rage and pride. From Europe's realms fair freedom has retired, And even in Britain has the spark expired— Sigh for the change your haughty empire feels, Sigh for the doom that no disguise conceals! Freedom no more shall Albion's cliffs survey; Corruption there has centered all her sway, Freedom disdains her honest head to rear, Or herd with nobles, kings, or princes there;[165] She shuns their gilded spires and domes of state, Resolved, O Virtue, at thy shrine to wait; 'Midst savage woods and wilds she dares to stray, And bids uncultured nature bloom more gay. She is that glorious and immortal sun, Without whose ray this world would be undone, A mere dull chaos, sunk in deepest night, An abject something, void of form and light, Of reptiles, worst in rank, the dire abode, Perpetual mischief, and the dragon's brood. Let Turks and Russians glut their fields with blood, Again let Britain dye the Atlantic flood, Let all the east adore the sanguine wreathe And gain new glories from the trade of death— America! the works of peace be thine, Thus shalt thou gain a triumph more divine— To thee belongs a second golden reign, Thine is the empire o'er a peaceful main; Protect the rights of human kind below, Crush the proud tyrant who becomes their foe, And future times shall own your struggles blest, And future years enjoy perpetual rest. Americans! revenge your country's wrongs; To you the honour of this deed belongs, Your arms did once this sinking land sustain, And saved those climes where Freedom yet must reign— Your bleeding soil this ardent task demands, Expel yon' thieves from these polluted lands, Expect no peace till haughty Britain yields, 'Till humbled Britons quit your ravaged fields— Still to the charge that routed foe returns, The war still rages, and the battle burns— No dull debates, or tedious counsels know, But rush at once, embodied, on your foe; With hell-born spite a seven years' war they wage, The pirate Goodrich, and the ruffian Gage. Your injured country groans while yet they stay, Attend her groans, and force their hosts away; Your mighty wrongs the tragic muse shall trace, Your gallant deeds shall fire a future race; To you may kings and potentates appeal, You may the doom of jarring nations seal; A glorious empire rises, bright and new! Firm be the structure, and must rest on you!— Fame o'er the mighty pile expands her wings, Remote from princes, bishops, lords, and kings, Those fancied gods, who, famed through every shore, Mankind have fashioned, and like fools, adore. Here yet shall heaven the joys of peace bestow, While through our soil the streams of plenty flow, And o'er the main we spread the trading sail, Wafting the produce of the rural vale.

Happy in my native grove, I from spray to spray did rove, Fond of music, full of love. Dressed as fine as bird could be, Every thing that I did see, Every thing was mirth to me. There had I been, happy still, With my mate to coo and bill In the vale, or on the hill. But the cruel tyrant, man, (Tyrant since the world began) Soon abridged my little span. How shall I the wrong forget! Over me he threw a net; And I am his prisoner yet. To this rough Bermudian shore Ocean I was hurried o'er, Ne'er to see my country more! To a narrow cage confined, I, who once so gaily shined, Sing to please the human kind. Dear Amanda!—leave me free, And my notes will sweeter be; On your breast, or in the tree![167] On your arm I would repose— One—oh make me—of your beaus— There I would relate my woes. Now, all love, and full of play, I so innocently gay, Pine my little life away. Thus to grieve and flutter here, Thus to pine from year to year; This is usage too severe. From the chiefs who rule your isle, I will never court a smile; All, with them, is prison style.[168] But from your superior mind Let me but my freedom find, And I will be all resigned. Then your kiss will hold me fast— If but once by you embraced, In your 'kerchief I will rest. Gentle shepherds of the plain, Who so fondly hear my strain; Help me to be free again. 'Tis a blessing to be free:— Fair Amanda![169]—pity me, Pity him who sings for thee. But if, cruel, you deny That your captive bird should fly, Here detained so wrongfully, Full of anguish, faint with woe, I must, with my music, go To the cypress groves below.

As Neptune traced the azure main That owned, so late, proud Britain's reign, A floating pile approached his car, The scene of terror and of war. As nearer still the monarch drew (Her starry flag displayed to view) He asked a Triton of his train "What flag was this that rode the main? "A ship of such a gallant mien "This many a day I have not seen, "To no mean power can she belong, "So swift, so warlike, stout, and strong. "See how she mounts the foaming wave— "Where other ships would find a grave, "Majestic, aweful, and serene, "She sails the ocean, like its queen."— "Great monarch of the hoary deep, "Whose trident awes the waves to sleep, (Replied a Triton of his train) "This ship, that stems the western main, "To those new, rising States belongs, "Who, in resentment of their wrongs, "Oppose proud Britain's tyrant sway, "And combat her, by land and sea. "This pile, of such superior fame, "From their strict union takes her name, "For them she cleaves the briny tide, "While terror marches by her side. "When she unfurls her flowing sails, "Undaunted by the fiercest gales, "In dreadful pomp, she ploughs the main, "While adverse tempests rage in vain. "When she displays her gloomy tier, "The boldest foes congeal with fear, "And, owning her superior might, "Seek their best safety in their flight. "But when she pours the dreadful blaze, "And thunder from her cannon plays, "The bursting flash that wings the ball, "Compells those foes to strike, or fall. "Though she, with her triumphant crew, "Might to their fate all foes pursue, "Yet, faithful to the land that bore, "She stays, to guard her native shore. "Though she might make the cruisers groan "That sail within the torrid zone, "She kindly lends a nearer aid, "Annoys them here, and guards the trade. "Now, traversing the eastern main, "She greets the shores of France and Spain; "Her gallant flag, displayed to view, "Invites the old world to the new. "This task atchieved, behold her go "To seas congealed with ice and snow, "To either tropic, and the line, "Where suns with endless fervour shine. "Not, Argo, on thy decks were found "Such hearts of brass, as here abound; "They for their golden fleece did fly, "These sail—to vanquish tyranny."

What distant thunders rend the skies, What clouds of smoke in columns rise, What means this dreadful roar? Is from his base Vesuvius thrown, Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down, Or Etna's self no more! Shock after shock torments my ear; And lo!—two hostile ships appear, Red lightnings round them glow: The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four, The Randolph thirty-two—no more— And will she fight this foe! The Randolph soon on Stygian streams Shall coast along the land of dreams, The islands of the dead! But Fate, that parts them on the deep, May save the Briton yet to weep His days of victory fled.[172] Say, who commands that dismal blaze, Where yonder starry streamer plays? Does Mars with Jove engage! 'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires, Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires, With more than mortal rage. Tremendous flash!—and hark, the ball Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all; Her bravest sons expire; Did Mars himself approach so nigh, Even Mars, without disgrace, might fly The Randolph's fiercer fire. The Briton views his mangled crew, "And shall we strike to thirty-two?— (Said Hector, stained with gore) "Shall Britain's flag to these descend— "Rise, and the glorious conflict end, "Britons, I ask no more!" He spoke—they charged their cannon round, Again the vaulted heavens resound, The Randolph bore it all, Then fixed her pointed cannons true— Away the unwieldy vengeance flew; Britain, thy warriors fall. The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay, Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away, Her boldest heroes dead— She saw amidst her floating slain The conquering Randolph stem the main— She saw, she turned—and fled! That hour, blest chief, had she been thine, Dear Biddle, had the powers divine Been kind as thou wert brave; But Fate, who doomed thee to expire, Prepared an arrow, tipt with fire, And marked a watery grave. And in that hour, when conquest came, Winged at his ship a pointed flame, That not even he could shun— The battle ceased, the Yarmouth fled, The bursting Randolph ruin spread, And left her task undone![173]

Thou, who on some dark mountain's brow Hast toil'd thy life away till now, And often from that rugged steep Beheld the vast extended deep, Come from thy forest, and with me Learn what it is to go to sea. There endless plains the eye surveys As far from land the vessel strays; No longer hill nor dale is seen, The realms of death intrude between, But fear no ill; resolve, with me To share the dangers of the sea. But look not there for verdant fields— Far different prospects Neptune yields; Green seas shall only greet the eye, Those seas encircled by the sky. Immense and deep—come then with me And view the wonders of the sea. Yet sometimes groves and meadows gay Delight the seamen on their way; From the deep seas that round us swell With rocks the surges to repel Some verdant isle, by waves embrac'd, Swells, to adorn the wat'ry waste. Though now this vast expanse appear With glassy surface, calm and clear; Be not deceiv'd—'tis but a show, For many a corpse is laid below— Even Britain's lads—it cannot be— They were the masters of the sea! Now combating upon the brine, Where ships in flaming squadrons join, At every blast the brave expire 'Midst clouds of smoke, and streams of fire; But scorn all fear; advance with me— 'Tis but the custom of the sea. Now we the peaceful wave divide, On broken surges now we ride, Now every eye dissolves with woe As on some lee-ward coast we go— Half lost, half buried in the main Hope scarcely beams on life again. Above us storms distract the sky, Beneath us depths unfathom'd lie, Too near we see, a ghastly sight,[175] The realms of everlasting night, A wat'ry tomb of ocean green And only one frail plank between! But winds must cease, and storms decay, Not always lasts the gloomy day, Again the skies are warm and clear, Again soft zephyrs fan the air, Again we find the long lost shore, The winds oppose our wish no more. If thou hast courage to despise The various changes of the skies, To disregard the ocean's rage, Unmov'd when hostile ships engage, Come from thy forest, and with me Learn what it is to go to sea.

From a gay island green and fair, With gentle blasts of southern air, Across the deep we held our way, Around our barque smooth waters played, No envious clouds obscur'd the day, Serene came on the evening shade. Still farther to the north we drew, And Porto Rico's mountains blue, Were just decaying on the eye, When from the main arose the sun; Before his ray the shadows fly, As we before the breezes run. Now northward of the tropic pass'd, The fickle skies grew black at last; The ruffian winds began to roar, The sea obey'd their tyrant force, And we, alas! too far from shore, Must now forsake our destin'd course. The studding sails at last to hand, The vent'rous captain gave command; But scarcely to the task went they When a vast billow o'er us broke, And tore the sheets and tacks away, Nor could the booms sustain the stroke. Still vaster rose the angry main. The winds through every shroud complain; The topsails we could spread no more, Though doubly reef'd, the furious blast Away the fluttering canvas bore, And vow'd destruction to the mast. When now the northern storm was quell'd, A calm ensued—but ocean swell'd Beyond the towering mountain's height, Till from the south new winds arose; Our sails we spread at dead of night, And fair, though fierce, the tempest blows. When morning rose, the skies were clear The gentle breezes warm and fair, Convey'd us o'er the wat'ry road; A ship o'ertook us on the way, Her thousand sails were spread abroad, And flutter'd in the face of day. At length, through many a climate pass'd, Cæsaria's hills we saw at last, And reach'd the land of lovely dames; My charming Cælia there I found, 'Tis she my warmest friendship claims, The fairest maid that treads the ground.