 | Specimens of American poetry |  |
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PHILIP FRENEAU.
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THE DYING INDIAN.
“On yonder lake I spread the sail no more!
Vigor, and youth, and active days are past—
Relentless demons urge me to that shore
On whose black forests all the dead are cast:
Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song,
For I must go to shades below,
Where all is strange, and all is new;
Companion to the airy throng,
What solitary streams,
In dull and dreary dreams,
All melancholy, must I rove along!
Vigor, and youth, and active days are past—
Relentless demons urge me to that shore
On whose black forests all the dead are cast:
Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song,
For I must go to shades below,
Where all is strange, and all is new;
Companion to the airy throng,
What solitary streams,
In dull and dreary dreams,
All melancholy, must I rove along!
To what strange lands must Shalum take his way?
Groves of the dead departed mortals trace;
No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chase,
But all are empty unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through those visionary glades;
No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend:
But sickly orchards there
Do fruits as sickly bear,
And apples a consumptive visage shew,
And wither'd hangs the whortle-berry blue.
Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend!
Wandering a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
Lazy and sad deluding waters flow—
Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales indeed, they tell
Of shades and purling rills,
Where our dead fathers dwell
Beyond the western hills,
But when did ghost return his state to shew;
Or who can promise half the tale is true?
Groves of the dead departed mortals trace;
No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chase,
But all are empty unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through those visionary glades;
No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend:
But sickly orchards there
Do fruits as sickly bear,
And apples a consumptive visage shew,
And wither'd hangs the whortle-berry blue.
Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend!
Wandering a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
Lazy and sad deluding waters flow—
Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales indeed, they tell
Of shades and purling rills,
Where our dead fathers dwell
Beyond the western hills,
But when did ghost return his state to shew;
Or who can promise half the tale is true?
I too must be a fleeting ghost—no more—
None, none but shadows to those mansions go;
I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore,
For emptier groves below!
Ye charming solitudes,
Ye tall ascending woods,
Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams,
Whose aspect still was sweet,
Whether the sun did greet,
Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams—
Adieu to all!
To all, that charm'd me where I stray'd,
The winding stream, the dark sequester'd shade;
Adieu all triumphs here!
Adieu the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
And seas, and stars, and skies—farewell,
For some remoter sphere!
None, none but shadows to those mansions go;
I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore,
For emptier groves below!
Ye charming solitudes,
Ye tall ascending woods,
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Whose aspect still was sweet,
Whether the sun did greet,
Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams—
Adieu to all!
To all, that charm'd me where I stray'd,
The winding stream, the dark sequester'd shade;
Adieu all triumphs here!
Adieu the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
And seas, and stars, and skies—farewell,
For some remoter sphere!
Perplex'd with doubts, and tortured with despair,
Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep?
Nature at last these ruins may repair,
When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep.
Some real world once more may be assign'd,
Some new born mansion for th' immortal mind!
Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods,
To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray,
Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
Beyond the Huron bay!
Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
My trusty bow and arrows by my side,
The cheerful bottle, and the ven'son store;
For long the journey is that I must go,
Without a partner, and without a guide.”
Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep?
Nature at last these ruins may repair,
When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep.
Some real world once more may be assign'd,
Some new born mansion for th' immortal mind!
Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods,
To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray,
Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
Beyond the Huron bay!
Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
My trusty bow and arrows by my side,
The cheerful bottle, and the ven'son store;
For long the journey is that I must go,
Without a partner, and without a guide.”
He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep:
Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!
Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!
THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouch'd thy honey'd blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
No roving foot shall find thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouch'd thy honey'd blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
No roving foot shall find thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.
By Nature's self in white array'd,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
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Thy days declining to repose.
Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died—nor were those flowers less gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
Unpitying frosts, and autumn's power
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died—nor were those flowers less gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
Unpitying frosts, and autumn's power
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.
From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
The space between is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
The space between is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.
THE MAN OF NINETY.
To yonder boughs that spread so wide,
Beneath whose shade soft waters glide,
Once more I take the well known way;
With feeble step and tottering knee
I sigh to reach my white-oak tree,
Where rosy health was wont to play.
Beneath whose shade soft waters glide,
Once more I take the well known way;
With feeble step and tottering knee
I sigh to reach my white-oak tree,
Where rosy health was wont to play.
If to the shades, consuming slow,
The shadow of myself, I go,
When I am gone, wilt thou remain!—
From dust you rose, and grew like me;
I man became, and you a tree,
Both natives of one grassy plain.
The shadow of myself, I go,
When I am gone, wilt thou remain!—
From dust you rose, and grew like me;
I man became, and you a tree,
Both natives of one grassy plain.
How much alike, yet not the same!—
You could no kind protector claim;
Alone you stood, to chance resign'd:
When winter came, with blustering sky,
You fear'd its blasts—and so did I,
And for warm suns in secret pined.
You could no kind protector claim;
Alone you stood, to chance resign'd:
When winter came, with blustering sky,
You fear'd its blasts—and so did I,
And for warm suns in secret pined.
When vernal suns began to glow,
You felt returning vigor flow,
Which once a year new leaves supplied;
Like you, fine days I wish'd to see,
And May was a sweet month to me,
But when November came—I sigh'd.
You felt returning vigor flow,
Which once a year new leaves supplied;
Like you, fine days I wish'd to see,
And May was a sweet month to me,
But when November came—I sigh'd.
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If through your bark some ruffian arm
A mark impress'd, you took th' alarm,
And tears awhile I saw descend;
Till nature's kind maternal aid
A plaister on your bruises laid,
And bade your trickling sorrows end.
A mark impress'd, you took th' alarm,
And tears awhile I saw descend;
Till nature's kind maternal aid
A plaister on your bruises laid,
And bade your trickling sorrows end.
Like you, I fear'd the lightning's stroke,
Whose flame dissolves the strength of oak,
And ends at once this mortal dream;—
You saw, with grief, the soil decay
That from your roots was torn away;
You sigh'd—and cursed the stream.
Whose flame dissolves the strength of oak,
And ends at once this mortal dream;—
You saw, with grief, the soil decay
That from your roots was torn away;
You sigh'd—and cursed the stream.
With borrow'd earth, and busy spade,
Around your roots new life I laid,
While joy revived in every vein;
(The care of man shall life impart—)
Though nature owns the aid of art,
No art, immortal, makes her reign.
Around your roots new life I laid,
While joy revived in every vein;
(The care of man shall life impart—)
Though nature owns the aid of art,
No art, immortal, makes her reign.
How much alike our fortune—say—
Yet, why must I so soon decay,
When thou hast scarcely reach'd thy prime—
Erect and tall, you joyous stand;
The staff of age has found my hand,
That guides me to the grave of time.
Yet, why must I so soon decay,
When thou hast scarcely reach'd thy prime—
Erect and tall, you joyous stand;
The staff of age has found my hand,
That guides me to the grave of time.
Could I, fair tree, like you resign,
And banish all these fears of mine,
Gray hairs would be no cause of grief;
Your blossoms die, but you remain,
Your fruit lies scatter'd o'er the plain—
Learn wisdom from the falling leaf.
And banish all these fears of mine,
Gray hairs would be no cause of grief;
Your blossoms die, but you remain,
Your fruit lies scatter'd o'er the plain—
Learn wisdom from the falling leaf.
As you survive by heaven's decree,
Let wither'd flowers be thrown on me,
Sad compensation for my doom,
While winter-greens and withering pines,
And cedars dark, and barren vines,
Point out the lonely tomb.
Let wither'd flowers be thrown on me,
Sad compensation for my doom,
While winter-greens and withering pines,
And cedars dark, and barren vines,
Point out the lonely tomb.
The enlivening sun that burns so bright,
Ne'er had a noon without a night,
So life and death agree;
The joys of man by years are broke—”
'T was thus the man of ninety spoke.
Then rose, and left his tree.
Ne'er had a noon without a night,
So life and death agree;
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'T was thus the man of ninety spoke.
Then rose, and left his tree.
THE INDIAN STUDENT: OR, FORCE OF NATURE.
From Susquehanna's farthest springs,
Where savage tribes pursue their game,
(His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
A shepherd of the forest came.
Where savage tribes pursue their game,
(His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
A shepherd of the forest came.
Not long before, a wandering priest
Express'd his wish with visage sad—
“Ah, why (he cried) in Satan's waste,
Ah, why detain so fine a lad?
Express'd his wish with visage sad—
“Ah, why (he cried) in Satan's waste,
Ah, why detain so fine a lad?
“In white man's land there stands a town,
Where learning may be purchased low—
Exchange his blanket for a gown,
And let the lad to college go.”
Where learning may be purchased low—
Exchange his blanket for a gown,
And let the lad to college go.”
From long debate the council rose,
And viewing Shalum's tricks with joy,
To Cambridge Hall, o'er wastes of snows,
They sent the copper-color'd boy.
And viewing Shalum's tricks with joy,
To Cambridge Hall, o'er wastes of snows,
They sent the copper-color'd boy.
One generous chief a bow supplied,
This gave a shaft, and that a skin;
The feathers, in vermilion dyed,
Himself did from a turkey win:
This gave a shaft, and that a skin;
The feathers, in vermilion dyed,
Himself did from a turkey win:
Thus dress'd so gay, he took his way
O'er barren hills, alone, alone!
His guide a star, he wander'd far,
His pillow every night a stone.
O'er barren hills, alone, alone!
His guide a star, he wander'd far,
His pillow every night a stone.
At last he came, with foot so lame,
Where learned men talk heathen Greek,
And Hebrew lore is gabbled o'er,
To please the muses,—twice a week.
Where learned men talk heathen Greek,
And Hebrew lore is gabbled o'er,
To please the muses,—twice a week.
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Awhile he writ, awhile he read,
Awhile he conn'd their grammar rules—
(An Indian savage so well bred
Great credit promised to the schools.)
Awhile he conn'd their grammar rules—
(An Indian savage so well bred
Great credit promised to the schools.)
Some thought he would in law excel,
Some said in physic he would shine;
And one that knew him passing well,
Beheld in him a sound divine.
Some said in physic he would shine;
And one that knew him passing well,
Beheld in him a sound divine.
But those of more discerning eye,
Even then could other prospects show,
And saw him lay his Virgil by,
To wander with his dearer bow.
Even then could other prospects show,
And saw him lay his Virgil by,
To wander with his dearer bow.
The tedious hours of study spent,
The heavy moulded lecture done,
He to the woods a hunting went,
Through lonely wastes he walk'd, he run.
The heavy moulded lecture done,
He to the woods a hunting went,
Through lonely wastes he walk'd, he run.
No mystic wonders fired his mind;
He sought to gain no learn'd degree,
But only sense enough to find
The squirrel in the hollow tree.
He sought to gain no learn'd degree,
But only sense enough to find
The squirrel in the hollow tree.
The shady bank, the purling stream,
The woody wild his heart possess'd,
The dewy lawn, his morning dream
In fancy's gayest colors drest.
The woody wild his heart possess'd,
The dewy lawn, his morning dream
In fancy's gayest colors drest.
“And why,” he cried, “did I forsake
My native wood for gloomy walls;
The silver stream, the limpid lake
For musty books, and college halls.
My native wood for gloomy walls;
The silver stream, the limpid lake
For musty books, and college halls.
“A little could my wants supply—
Can wealth and honor give me more;
Or, will the sylvan god deny
The humble treat he gave before?
Can wealth and honor give me more;
Or, will the sylvan god deny
The humble treat he gave before?
“Let seraphs gain the bright abode,
And heaven's sublimest mansions see—
I only bow to Nature's God—
The land of shades will do for me.
And heaven's sublimest mansions see—
I only bow to Nature's God—
The land of shades will do for me.
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“These dreadful secrets of the sky
Alarm my soul with chilling fear—
Do planets in their orbits fly,
And is the earth, indeed, a sphere?
Alarm my soul with chilling fear—
Do planets in their orbits fly,
And is the earth, indeed, a sphere?
“Let planets still their course pursue,
And comets to the centre run—
In him my faithful friend I view,
The image of my God—the sun.
And comets to the centre run—
In him my faithful friend I view,
The image of my God—the sun.
“Where nature's ancient forests grow,
And mingled laurel never fades,
My heart is fix'd and I must go
To die among my native shades.”
And mingled laurel never fades,
My heart is fix'd and I must go
To die among my native shades.”
He spoke, and to the western springs,
(His gown discharged, his money spent,
His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
The shepherd of the forest went.
(His gown discharged, his money spent,
His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
The shepherd of the forest went.
THE HURRICANE.
Happy the man who, safe on shore,
Now trims, at home, his evening fire;
Unmoved, he hears the tempests roar,
That on the tufted groves expire:
Alas! on us they doubly fall,
Our feeble bark must bear them all.
Now trims, at home, his evening fire;
Unmoved, he hears the tempests roar,
That on the tufted groves expire:
Alas! on us they doubly fall,
Our feeble bark must bear them all.
Now to their haunts the birds retreat,
The squirrel seeks his hollow tree,
Wolves in their shaded caverns meet,
All, all are bless'd but wretched we—
Foredoom'd a stranger to repose,
No rest the unsettled ocean knows.
The squirrel seeks his hollow tree,
Wolves in their shaded caverns meet,
All, all are bless'd but wretched we—
Foredoom'd a stranger to repose,
No rest the unsettled ocean knows.
While o'er the dark abyss we roam,
Perhaps, whate'er the pilots say,
We saw the sun descend in gloom,
No more to see his rising ray,
But buried low, by far too deep,
On coral beds, unpitied, sleep!
Perhaps, whate'er the pilots say,
We saw the sun descend in gloom,
No more to see his rising ray,
But buried low, by far too deep,
On coral beds, unpitied, sleep!
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But what a stange, uncoasted strand
Is that, where fate permits no day—
No charts have we to mark that land,
No compass to direct that way.
What pilot shall explore that realm,
What new Columbus take the helm?
Is that, where fate permits no day—
No charts have we to mark that land,
No compass to direct that way.
What pilot shall explore that realm,
What new Columbus take the helm?
While death and darkness both surround,
And tempests rage with lawless power,
Of friendship's voice I hear no sound,
No comfort in this dreadful hour—
What friendship can in tempests be,
What comfort on this troubled sea?
And tempests rage with lawless power,
Of friendship's voice I hear no sound,
No comfort in this dreadful hour—
What friendship can in tempests be,
What comfort on this troubled sea?
The bark, accustom'd to obey,
No more the trembling pilots guide;
Alone she gropes her trackless way,
While mountains burst on either side—
Thus, skill and science both must fall;
And ruin is the lot of all.
No more the trembling pilots guide;
Alone she gropes her trackless way,
While mountains burst on either side—
Thus, skill and science both must fall;
And ruin is the lot of all.
THE FIVE AGES.
The reign of old Saturn is highly renown'd
For many fine things that no longer are found,
Trees always in blossom, men free from all pains,
And shepherds as mild as the sheep on their plains.
For many fine things that no longer are found,
Trees always in blossom, men free from all pains,
And shepherds as mild as the sheep on their plains.
In the midland equator, dispensing his sway,
The sun, they pretended, pursued his bright way,
Not rambled, unsteady, to regions remote,
To talk, once a year, with the crab and the goat.
The sun, they pretended, pursued his bright way,
Not rambled, unsteady, to regions remote,
To talk, once a year, with the crab and the goat.
From a motion like this, have the sages explain'd,
How summer for ever her empire maintain'd;
While the turf of the fields by the plough was unbroke,
And a house for the shepherd, the boughs of an oak.
How summer for ever her empire maintain'd;
While the turf of the fields by the plough was unbroke,
And a house for the shepherd, the boughs of an oak.
Yet some say there never was seen on this stage
What poets affirm of that innocent age,
When the brutal creation from bondage was free,
And men were exactly what mankind should be.
What poets affirm of that innocent age,
When the brutal creation from bondage was free,
And men were exactly what mankind should be.
But why should they labor to prove it a dream?—
The poets of old were in love with the theme,
And, leaving to others mere truth to repeat,
In the regions of fancy they found it complete.
The poets of old were in love with the theme,
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In the regions of fancy they found it complete.
Three ages have been on this globe, they pretend;
And the fourth, some have thought, is to be without end;
The first was of gold—but a fifth, we will say,
Has already begun, and is now on its way.
And the fourth, some have thought, is to be without end;
The first was of gold—but a fifth, we will say,
Has already begun, and is now on its way.
Since the days of Arcadia, if ever there shined
A ray of the first on the heads of mankind,
Let the learned dispute—but with us it is clear,
That the era of paper was realized here.
A ray of the first on the heads of mankind,
Let the learned dispute—but with us it is clear,
That the era of paper was realized here.
Four ages, however, at least have been told,
The first is compared to the purest of gold—
But, as bad luck would have it, its circles were few,
And the next was of silver—if Ovid says true.
The first is compared to the purest of gold—
But, as bad luck would have it, its circles were few,
And the next was of silver—if Ovid says true.
But this, like the former, did rapidly pass—
While that which came after was nothing but brass—
An age of mere tinkers—and when it was lost,
Hard iron succeeded—we know to our cost.
While that which came after was nothing but brass—
An age of mere tinkers—and when it was lost,
Hard iron succeeded—we know to our cost.
And hence you may fairly infer, if you please,
That we 're nothing but blacksmiths of various degrees,
Since each has a weapon, of one kind or other,
To stir up the coals, and to shake at his brother.
That we 're nothing but blacksmiths of various degrees,
Since each has a weapon, of one kind or other,
To stir up the coals, and to shake at his brother.
Should the Author of nature reverse his decree,
And bring back the age we 're so anxious to see,
Agreement alas!—you would look for in vain,
The stuff might be changed, but the staff would remain.
And bring back the age we 're so anxious to see,
Agreement alas!—you would look for in vain,
The stuff might be changed, but the staff would remain.
The lawyer would still find a client to fleece,
The doctor, a patient to pack off in peace,
The parson, some hundreds of hearers prepared,
To measure his gifts by the length of his beard.
The doctor, a patient to pack off in peace,
The parson, some hundreds of hearers prepared,
To measure his gifts by the length of his beard.
Old Momus would still have some cattle to lead,
Who would hug his opinions, and swallow his creed—
So it 's best, I presume, that things are as they are—
If iron 's the meanest—we 've nothing to fear.
Who would hug his opinions, and swallow his creed—
So it 's best, I presume, that things are as they are—
If iron 's the meanest—we 've nothing to fear.
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EPISTLE TO A GAY YOUNG LADY WHO WAS MARRIED TO A DOATING OLD DEACON.
Thus winter joins to April's bloom,
Thus daisies blush beside a tomb,
Thus, fields of ice o'er rivers grow,
While melting streams are found below.
Thus daisies blush beside a tomb,
Thus, fields of ice o'er rivers grow,
While melting streams are found below.
How strange a taste is here display'd—
Yourself all light, and he all shade!
Each hour you live you look more gay,
While he grows uglier every day!
Yourself all light, and he all shade!
Each hour you live you look more gay,
While he grows uglier every day!
Intent upon celestial things,
He only Watts or Sternhold sings;—
You tune your chord to different strains,
And merrier notes attract the swains.
He only Watts or Sternhold sings;—
You tune your chord to different strains,
And merrier notes attract the swains.
Ah Harriot! why in beauty's prime
Thus look for flowers in Greenland's clime;
When twenty years are scarcely run
Thus hope for spring without a sun!
Thus look for flowers in Greenland's clime;
When twenty years are scarcely run
Thus hope for spring without a sun!
THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND.
In spite of all the learn'd have said,
I still my old opinion keep;
The posture that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.
I still my old opinion keep;
The posture that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.
Not so the ancients of these lands—
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.
His imaged birds, and painted bowl,
And ven'son, for a journey dress'd,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.
And ven'son, for a journey dress'd,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.
His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.
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Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
No fraud upon the dead commit—
Observe the swelling turf, and say,
They do not lie, but here they sit.
No fraud upon the dead commit—
Observe the swelling turf, and say,
They do not lie, but here they sit.
Here still a lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a ruder race.
On which the curious eye may trace
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a ruder race.
Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires)
The children of the forest play'd!
Beneath whose far projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires)
The children of the forest play'd!
There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.
By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In vestments for the chase array'd,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!
In vestments for the chase array'd,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!
And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And Reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And Reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS UNDER GENERAL GREENE, IN SOUTH CAROLINA, WHO FELL IN THE ACTION OF SEPTEMBER 8, 1781.
At Eutaw springs the valiant died:
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er—
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er—
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!
If in this wreck of ruin, they
Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
O smite thy gentle breast, and say
The friends of freedom slumber here!
Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
O smite thy gentle breast, and say
The friends of freedom slumber here!
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Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,
If goodness rules thy generous breast,
Sigh for the wasted rural reign;
Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!
If goodness rules thy generous breast,
Sigh for the wasted rural reign;
Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!
Stranger, their humble graves adorn;
You too may fall, and ask a tear:
'T is not the beauty of the morn
That proves the evening shall be clear.
You too may fall, and ask a tear:
'T is not the beauty of the morn
That proves the evening shall be clear.
They saw their injured country's wo;
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear—but left the shield.
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear—but left the shield.
Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,
The Britons they compell'd to fly:
None distant view'd the fatal plain,
None grieved, in such a cause to die.
The Britons they compell'd to fly:
None distant view'd the fatal plain,
None grieved, in such a cause to die.
But, like the Parthian, famed of old,
Who, flying, still their arrows threw;
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.
Who, flying, still their arrows threw;
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.
Now rest in peace our patriot band;
Though far from nature's limits thrown,
We trust, they find a happier land,
A brighter sunshine of their own.
Though far from nature's limits thrown,
We trust, they find a happier land,
A brighter sunshine of their own.
PORT ROYAL.
Here, by the margin of the murmuring main,
While her proud remnants I explore in vain,
And lonely stray through these dejected lands
Fann'd by the noon-tide breeze on burning sands,
Where the dull Spaniard once possess'd these shades,
And ports defended by his palisades—
Though lost to us, Port Royal claims a sigh,
Nor shall the muse the unenvied verse deny.
While her proud remnants I explore in vain,
And lonely stray through these dejected lands
Fann'd by the noon-tide breeze on burning sands,
Where the dull Spaniard once possess'd these shades,
And ports defended by his palisades—
Though lost to us, Port Royal claims a sigh,
Nor shall the muse the unenvied verse deny.
Of all the towns that graced Jamaica's isle,
This was her glory, and the proudest pile,
Where toils on toils bade wealth's gay structures rise,
And commerce swell'd her glory to the skies:
St Jago, seated on a distant plain,
Ne'er saw the tall ship entering from the main,
Unnoticed streams her Cobra's margin lave,
Where yon tall plantains shade her glowing wave,
And burning sands, or rock-surrounded hill
Confess its founder's fears—or want of skill.
This was her glory, and the proudest pile,
Where toils on toils bade wealth's gay structures rise,
And commerce swell'd her glory to the skies:
St Jago, seated on a distant plain,
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Unnoticed streams her Cobra's margin lave,
Where yon tall plantains shade her glowing wave,
And burning sands, or rock-surrounded hill
Confess its founder's fears—or want of skill.
While o'er these wastes with wearied step I go,
Past scenes of death return, in all their wo,
O'er these sad shores, in angry pomp he pass'd,
Moved in the winds, and raged with every blast—
Here, opening gulphs confess'd the Almighty hand,
Here, the dark ocean roll'd across the land,
Here, piles on piles an instant tore away,
Here, crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay,
Whom fate scarce gave to end their noon-day feast,
Or time to call the sexton, or the priest.
Where yon tall bark, with all her ponderous load,
Commits her anchor to its dark abode,
Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow,
To quench the sulphur of the caves below:
There midnight sounds torment the sailors ear,
And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts there,
Sad songs of wo prevent the hour of sleep,
And fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep;
Dull Superstition hears the ghostly hum,
Smit with the terrors of the world to come.
Past scenes of death return, in all their wo,
O'er these sad shores, in angry pomp he pass'd,
Moved in the winds, and raged with every blast—
Here, opening gulphs confess'd the Almighty hand,
Here, the dark ocean roll'd across the land,
Here, piles on piles an instant tore away,
Here, crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay,
Whom fate scarce gave to end their noon-day feast,
Or time to call the sexton, or the priest.
Where yon tall bark, with all her ponderous load,
Commits her anchor to its dark abode,
Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow,
To quench the sulphur of the caves below:
There midnight sounds torment the sailors ear,
And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts there,
Sad songs of wo prevent the hour of sleep,
And fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep;
Dull Superstition hears the ghostly hum,
Smit with the terrors of the world to come.
What now is left of all your boasted pride!
Lost are those glories that were spread so wide,
A spit of sand is thine by heaven's decree,
And wasting shores that scarce resist the sea:
Is this Port Royal on Jamaica's coast,
The Spaniard's envy, and the Briton's boast!
A shatter'd roof o'er every hut appears,
And mouldering brick work prompts the traveller's fears;
A church, with half a priest, I grieve to see,
Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!—
One only inn with tiresome search I found
Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round;—
His was the part to wait the impatient call,
He was the landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all;
His wary eyes on every side were cast,
Beheld the present, and revolved the past,
Now here, now there, in swift succession stole,
Glanced at the bar, or watch'd the unsteady bowl.
Lost are those glories that were spread so wide,
A spit of sand is thine by heaven's decree,
And wasting shores that scarce resist the sea:
Is this Port Royal on Jamaica's coast,
The Spaniard's envy, and the Briton's boast!
A shatter'd roof o'er every hut appears,
And mouldering brick work prompts the traveller's fears;
A church, with half a priest, I grieve to see,
Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!—
One only inn with tiresome search I found
Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round;—
His was the part to wait the impatient call,
He was the landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all;
His wary eyes on every side were cast,
Beheld the present, and revolved the past,
Now here, now there, in swift succession stole,
Glanced at the bar, or watch'd the unsteady bowl.
No sprightly lads or gay bewitching maids
Walk on these wastes, or wander in these shades;
To other shores past times beheld them go,
And some are slumbering in the caves below;
A negro tribe but ill their place supply,
With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye;
A swarthy race lead up the evening dance,
Trip o'er the sands and dart the alluring glance:
A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town,
Where banish'd tories come to seek renown,
Where worn out slaves their bowls of beer retail,
And sunburnt strumpets watch the approaching sail.
Walk on these wastes, or wander in these shades;
To other shores past times beheld them go,
And some are slumbering in the caves below;
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With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye;
A swarthy race lead up the evening dance,
Trip o'er the sands and dart the alluring glance:
A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town,
Where banish'd tories come to seek renown,
Where worn out slaves their bowls of beer retail,
And sunburnt strumpets watch the approaching sail.
Here (scarce escaped the wild tornado's rage,)
Why sail'd I here to swell my future page!
To these dull scenes with eager haste I came
To trace the relics of their ancient fame,
Not worth the search!—what domes are left to fall,
Guns, gales, and earthquakes shall destroy them all—
All shall be lost!—though hosts their aid implore,
The Twelve Apostles shall protect no more,
Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish'd plain;
No priest shall mutter, and no church remain,
Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade,
Where the dark negro his dull music play'd,
Or casts his view beyond the adjacent strand,
And points, still grieving, to his native land,
Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore,
And pants for countries he must see no more.
Why sail'd I here to swell my future page!
To these dull scenes with eager haste I came
To trace the relics of their ancient fame,
Not worth the search!—what domes are left to fall,
Guns, gales, and earthquakes shall destroy them all—
All shall be lost!—though hosts their aid implore,
The Twelve Apostles shall protect no more,
Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish'd plain;
No priest shall mutter, and no church remain,
Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade,
Where the dark negro his dull music play'd,
Or casts his view beyond the adjacent strand,
And points, still grieving, to his native land,
Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore,
And pants for countries he must see no more.
Where shall I go, what Lethe shall I find
To drive these dark ideas from my mind!
No buckram heroes can relieve the eye,
And George's honors only raise a sigh—
To drive these dark ideas from my mind!
No buckram heroes can relieve the eye,
And George's honors only raise a sigh—
Ye mountains vast, whose heights the heaven sustain,
Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston's plain,
Where nature still the toils of art transcends—
In this dull spot the enchanting prospect ends:
Where burning sands are wing'd by every blast,
And these mean fabrics but entomb the past;
Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside,
And threatening moons advance the imperious tide,
Ye stormy winds, awhile your wrath suspend;
Who leaves the land, a bottle, and a friend,
Quits this bright isle for yon blue seas and sky,
Or even Port Royal quits—without a sigh!
Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston's plain,
Where nature still the toils of art transcends—
In this dull spot the enchanting prospect ends:
Where burning sands are wing'd by every blast,
And these mean fabrics but entomb the past;
Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside,
And threatening moons advance the imperious tide,
Ye stormy winds, awhile your wrath suspend;
Who leaves the land, a bottle, and a friend,
Quits this bright isle for yon blue seas and sky,
Or even Port Royal quits—without a sigh!
| Specimens of American poetry | |