The hurricane a theosophical and western eclogue. To which is subjoined, a solitary effusion in a summer's evening. By William Gilbert |
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 | The hurricane |  |
I placed Her in an idle hammaque near,
Which, held by Negroes, bore her gently on.
And as we went, I aimed, with tenderest talk
To cheer the droopy maid; who, not reluctant
Seemed, to solace: for to Sea unused, young
And innocent, she knew not the dangers
She had passed; but hearing English spoke, and
Dreaming nought of strangers, having sunk to sleep
Among accustomed friends, supposed herself
Still known. Simply eloquent, she told me,
How they disturbed her with their noise on board;
How, being still at length, she hugged her couch,
Rocked by the winds and seas to dead repose,
Till thence awoke by me. So infant spirits,
Who wing their animating flight of Death
In pleasing slumbers from their mother's arms,
Alight unknowing on celestial ground:
Then press with firmy step the flowery path,
Nor dream of serpents they have never known;
Embrace with smiles their first angelic Friend,
And ope the little treasure of their hearts:
Thus sweet Elmira told her gentle tale,
And lit each generous ardour in my breast.
Which, held by Negroes, bore her gently on.
And as we went, I aimed, with tenderest talk
To cheer the droopy maid; who, not reluctant
Seemed, to solace: for to Sea unused, young
And innocent, she knew not the dangers
She had passed; but hearing English spoke, and
Dreaming nought of strangers, having sunk to sleep
Among accustomed friends, supposed herself
Still known. Simply eloquent, she told me,
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How, being still at length, she hugged her couch,
Rocked by the winds and seas to dead repose,
Till thence awoke by me. So infant spirits,
Who wing their animating flight of Death
In pleasing slumbers from their mother's arms,
Alight unknowing on celestial ground:
Then press with firmy step the flowery path,
Nor dream of serpents they have never known;
Embrace with smiles their first angelic Friend,
And ope the little treasure of their hearts:
Thus sweet Elmira told her gentle tale,
And lit each generous ardour in my breast.
| The hurricane | |