Infancy, or the management of children a didactic poem, in six books. The sixth edition. To which are added poems not before published. By Hugh Downman |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
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On TAKING the HAVANNAH.
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 | Infancy, or the management of children |  |
207
On TAKING the HAVANNAH.
Mourn, mourn Iberia! prostrate in the dust
Lay thy once-haughty form! while thus breaks forth
The deep, impassion'd anguish of thy mind.
Lay thy once-haughty form! while thus breaks forth
The deep, impassion'd anguish of thy mind.
“Accursed be those, eternal bane pursue,
And taint with blackest infamy their names,
Who first with impious counsels dared advise
To join my aid, and help the sinking state
Of ruin'd Gallia!—Never more may peace
Attend their footsteps, who so rashly framed
The boasted compact!—Fools! who did not think
What enemy they roused to venturous deeds.
Who did not, tho by sad experience taught,
Reflect on days of yore, and thence foretell
Confusion to their hopes.—Have I not seen
Edward, tremendous in his sable arms?
Have I not often heard the dreaded name
Of Raleigh? oft of Drake? Have I forgot
When all the riches of our western world
Vigo beheld, or taken, or in flames?
Or when Gibraltar lowly-stooping, sigh'd
O'er her scaled bulwarks? Or, when urged by fame
Heroic Peterborough laugh'd to scorn
Numbers, and strength superior, having fix'd
His standard on the subjugated walls
Of Punic-built Barcino? Dauntless soars
The British spirit, holding undepress'd
Its glorious way. Oh, Britain! Oh, adorn'd
By our disgrace! triumph, and bliss are thine,
Mine is despair. Oh, Cuba! word of joy
Erst, and delight, now of reproach, Oh, Isle
Beloved, how art thou torn from my embrace,
Perhaps forever!”—Thus Iberia, mourn,
By day, by night, nor rear from off the earth
Thy weak, enervate limbs.—But thou rejoice
Oh, Antillean Genius! shout aloud,
And call thy Nymphs around thee from their grots,
And caves, call forth thy Dryads from their groves
Breathing perfumes. Bid sound the sprightly song;
Bid lead the frolic dance: And say “Rejoice
With me, ye Nymphs, rejoice ye virgin train!
Again delighted range my woods, my dells,
And wide savannahs. Now arrives the day
Long time by me invoked, to oppress with woe
The fell Iberian race, whose cruel minds,
Hard, and unfeeling from the lust of gold,
Prompted their willing hands to extirpate
My old inhabitants; e'en hoary heads,
And tender years for mercy cried in vain.
Then did the heavens weep blood, in agony
The mountains trembled, and the chafed ocean
Lash'd the resounding shores with indignation.
I o'er my face my mantle threw, and struck
With inexpressive horror, inly groan'd.
You shriek'd, and wildly ran to hide forlorn,
In dens, and caverns, never visited
By Sol's intruding splendor, where you might
Indulge the potent grief which wrung your souls.
But now the time is come, the time to cease
Your ejulations, and cast off the weeds
Of sorrow.—Vengeance on them lowers, his form
Gigantic shades the land, his quiver bears
Its winged shafts terrific, he essays
His strength, and preluding, to contact draws
The points of his renitent bow. He calls
Far from the north, from the white-clifted Isle,
The sons of war; by rapid winds impell'd,
They speed across the Atlantic. Brave their souls;
And proud in conscious worth, they view unmoved
The frown of death. Their Enemies dismay'd,
And anxious, droop.—What numbers soon to fall!
Their firm-ribb'd ships, high-towering o'er the deep,
In vain protect them, their strong gates in vain,
And force-defying ramparts, and in vain
Velasco, best, and bravest of his kind;
Whom, had not hate hereditary steel'd
My nerves, I should behold with pitying eye.
His efforts fail, and on the well-fought breach
Lo! he expires! Now Vengeance drench'd in streams
Of reeking crimson, leads his heroes on,
And now the Isle is theirs. Oh! gratulate
The valiant, the avengers. May they ne'er
Restore the conquest; grant it not ye Powers,
All, who detest injustice!”—In the prayer
Of Cuba's Genius, Thou Britannia join!
Say to thy sons “Hold fast this matchless prize,
Transcendent o'er the Caribbean Isles,
Pride of the western Ind! Reject her not,
Lest other nations tauntingly observe,
Thus fight Britannia's progeny in sport,
Thus waste their treasures, and the generous blood
Of those, whose valour awes the astonied world.
Ah! if her stores of aloes, and of myrrh,
And fragrant cassia, her delicious fruits,
Worthy of Paradise, which might enchant
A second Eve, her hills clad with each tree
For use, or ornament, her sugar'd fields,
Her luxury of charms, cannot entice
And win you to possession, yet let not
My enemies insultingly reproach
Your easy folly, nor become the tale
Of scorn, and laughter to perfidious Gaul.”
And taint with blackest infamy their names,
Who first with impious counsels dared advise
To join my aid, and help the sinking state
Of ruin'd Gallia!—Never more may peace
Attend their footsteps, who so rashly framed
The boasted compact!—Fools! who did not think
What enemy they roused to venturous deeds.
Who did not, tho by sad experience taught,
Reflect on days of yore, and thence foretell
Confusion to their hopes.—Have I not seen
Edward, tremendous in his sable arms?
Have I not often heard the dreaded name
208
When all the riches of our western world
Vigo beheld, or taken, or in flames?
Or when Gibraltar lowly-stooping, sigh'd
O'er her scaled bulwarks? Or, when urged by fame
Heroic Peterborough laugh'd to scorn
Numbers, and strength superior, having fix'd
His standard on the subjugated walls
Of Punic-built Barcino? Dauntless soars
The British spirit, holding undepress'd
Its glorious way. Oh, Britain! Oh, adorn'd
By our disgrace! triumph, and bliss are thine,
Mine is despair. Oh, Cuba! word of joy
Erst, and delight, now of reproach, Oh, Isle
Beloved, how art thou torn from my embrace,
Perhaps forever!”—Thus Iberia, mourn,
By day, by night, nor rear from off the earth
Thy weak, enervate limbs.—But thou rejoice
Oh, Antillean Genius! shout aloud,
And call thy Nymphs around thee from their grots,
And caves, call forth thy Dryads from their groves
Breathing perfumes. Bid sound the sprightly song;
Bid lead the frolic dance: And say “Rejoice
209
Again delighted range my woods, my dells,
And wide savannahs. Now arrives the day
Long time by me invoked, to oppress with woe
The fell Iberian race, whose cruel minds,
Hard, and unfeeling from the lust of gold,
Prompted their willing hands to extirpate
My old inhabitants; e'en hoary heads,
And tender years for mercy cried in vain.
Then did the heavens weep blood, in agony
The mountains trembled, and the chafed ocean
Lash'd the resounding shores with indignation.
I o'er my face my mantle threw, and struck
With inexpressive horror, inly groan'd.
You shriek'd, and wildly ran to hide forlorn,
In dens, and caverns, never visited
By Sol's intruding splendor, where you might
Indulge the potent grief which wrung your souls.
But now the time is come, the time to cease
Your ejulations, and cast off the weeds
Of sorrow.—Vengeance on them lowers, his form
Gigantic shades the land, his quiver bears
Its winged shafts terrific, he essays
210
The points of his renitent bow. He calls
Far from the north, from the white-clifted Isle,
The sons of war; by rapid winds impell'd,
They speed across the Atlantic. Brave their souls;
And proud in conscious worth, they view unmoved
The frown of death. Their Enemies dismay'd,
And anxious, droop.—What numbers soon to fall!
Their firm-ribb'd ships, high-towering o'er the deep,
In vain protect them, their strong gates in vain,
And force-defying ramparts, and in vain
Velasco, best, and bravest of his kind;
Whom, had not hate hereditary steel'd
My nerves, I should behold with pitying eye.
His efforts fail, and on the well-fought breach
Lo! he expires! Now Vengeance drench'd in streams
Of reeking crimson, leads his heroes on,
And now the Isle is theirs. Oh! gratulate
The valiant, the avengers. May they ne'er
Restore the conquest; grant it not ye Powers,
All, who detest injustice!”—In the prayer
Of Cuba's Genius, Thou Britannia join!
Say to thy sons “Hold fast this matchless prize,
211
Pride of the western Ind! Reject her not,
Lest other nations tauntingly observe,
Thus fight Britannia's progeny in sport,
Thus waste their treasures, and the generous blood
Of those, whose valour awes the astonied world.
Ah! if her stores of aloes, and of myrrh,
And fragrant cassia, her delicious fruits,
Worthy of Paradise, which might enchant
A second Eve, her hills clad with each tree
For use, or ornament, her sugar'd fields,
Her luxury of charms, cannot entice
And win you to possession, yet let not
My enemies insultingly reproach
Your easy folly, nor become the tale
Of scorn, and laughter to perfidious Gaul.”
| Infancy, or the management of children | |