University of Virginia Library

Far in that eastern sea that beats
With swelling surge rich Java's seats,
And Borneo and Sumatra's shore,
Amidst the hoarse waves' ceaseless roar
With palm and native cedar grac'd,
A lone romantic isle is plac'd,
Whose flowery lawns and secret shades
No foot of Indian swain invades.
Here on a rock, from whose steep brow
Dark'ning the wave that roll'd below,
Where Ether stoops to Ocean green,
Sumatra's distant shore was seen,
With angry looks, in wrathful mood
The Genius, lo! of India stood.
Disdaining of that wonted state
In which on Ganges' banks he sate,
On Ganges banks ill-fated shore,
Whose blood-stain'd fields delight no more;
The Genius rent his robe, his crown
He threw with frantic gestures down,
While thus his angry speech exprest
The passions raging in his breast.

“Why on my head with diamonds grac'd
Was India's proud tiara plac'd?
Why was of India's sons the care
By fatal destiny my share?
The Indian princes to behold
Cast from their antient thrones of gold,
To hear the long and loud lament
From Indian kingdoms deeply sent,
Whilst of invaders fierce an host
Sent from remotest Europe's coast,
Stretch thro' our shores their lawless sway,
And mark with blood their impious way.
Yet shall not India's genius long
Bear unreveng'd this mighty wrong.
Ye sons of Albion, ye whose band
Has vext the most this injur'd land,
Ye, who with mightier power endu'd
Have in pure blood your hands imbru'd,
That in your treasures ye might hold
A countless sum of Indian gold,
Ye yet your bloody deeds shall rue
And give to India vengeance due.
Whilst on this shore your footsteps fall,
Dire avarice shall you enthral,
To work her will accurst, her slaves;
Or if ye measure back the waves
And seek again your native ground,
Yet there avengers shall be found.
There luxury your souls shall hold,
And melt your hoarded heaps of gold,
And pleasure sought with eager chase
Shall still delude your vain embrace,
Whilst your proud banquets to confound
Remorse, dire spectre, from the ground
Shall rise, a guest of fell affright,
Who calling India to your sight
Shall shake her scourge and snaky hair,
And fill your bosoms with despair.”

Thus from the green isle, his retreat,
The genius pours his angry threat,
When lo! the British ship that bore
The young Amyntor from the shore
Of Albion to the Indian clime,
While soft gales blow, in luckless time,
Is seen afar along the deep
To the green isle its way to keep.
The breezes fall, the vessel rides
At distance on the rolling tides,
With face deceitful smiles the sky,
And now impatient to descry
An Indian land, Amyntor sweeps
In oary barge the level deeps,
And now with curious eye explores
The untry'd windings of the shores.
The Genius saw the youth the while
In oary barge approach the isle,
The Genius wept, the Genius sigh'd,
And oh thou hapless youth, he cry'd,
Art thou too come of milder look,
Thy native Albion's cliffs forsook,
Art thou too come thy purer hand
To stain the spoiler of this land?
Alas! ill fitted thou to wage
The wars in Indian climes that rage,
Alas! unknowing thou what store
Of ills infest the indian shore!
Enflam'd with glory's radiant charms
And nurtur'd to contend in arms
With a proud foe whose martial rage
With Albion well the war could wage,
Say, wilt thou count it mighty praise
Thy trophies in this land to raise,
Land of a nation weaker far,
Shunning the strife of furious war,
Whose mind a languor soft inhales
From sultry skies and melting gales,
Whose riches only, fatal gift,
The invaders steel against them lift,
Guiltless of crimes that may provoke,
Submitting to a gentle yoke,
And pouring gold in boundless stores
To turn the battle from their shores?
With gentlest arts and manners blest,
And all thy virtuous soul possest
By the sweet Muses, whose kind power
Has nurst thee from thy earliest hour,
Wilt thou not weep to see the wrong
Which hapless India suffers long,
Her nobles innocent in vain
By uffian force or treach'ry slain,
Her princes in the fight subdu'd
By dire oppression's scourge pursu'd,
And war and rapine's horrid band
In bloody state led thro' the land,
That heaps of gold may sate the lust
Of Albion's sons, severe, unjust;
Wrongs whose full measure to restrain
Thy feeble power must strive in vain?
Or will this dire contagious clime
Infect thy bosom too with crime,
And stifling all the generous fire
Which in thy breast now glows entire,
The mighty wish of godlike fame,
The gentle virtues 'heavenly flame,
Shall avarice dire in evil day
Thy sliding nature here betray
To vices which it most disdains,
To thoughts unfeeling of the pains
And sorrows of a race opprest,
To arts of lucre, vile, unblest,
And deeds of rapine dark, that shun
The pure light of the radiant sun?
Oh, ere thy step these borders gain,
While yet thy soul is free from stain,
Oh, let me save thee from the snares
Which for thy youth this land prepares,
And from the pangs which sure will wound
Thy honest mind on Indian ground.

The Genius stretcht his mighty hand
And smote the waters with his wand:
The shores and hollow rocks around
Send to the surge a solemn sound,
A sudden gloom the deep invades,
The noon-tide sun is hid in shades,
The sea with troubled face appears,
When lo, a wave its head uprears
That seen afar in ocean's plain,
Seems a huge mountain in the main;
Gathering the floods as vast it sweeps
Its furious way along the deeps,
The wave now rolls with thundering roar
Its weight of waters to the shore.
O, hapless youth whose pinnace vain
May ill the mighty flood sustain!
O, yet thou Indian Genius quell
That wave which thou hast taught to swell,
O, yet thou Indian Genius save
The lost Amyntor from the wave!
The pious vow is breath'd in vain,
Nor may we our weak suit obtain.
The sullen shades of night are fled,
Old Ocean smooths his wat'ry bed,
The wave its furious course has roll'd,
But, ah! within its bosom cold
The young Amyntor buried lies,
And endless night has clos'd his eyes.
Farewel, O youth too early lost,
With all thy virtues blooming most,
Farewel, the power that sways the deep
From ills thy virtuous mind to keep,
Ordains an early grave for thee,
Nor may we blame that high decree.
No hallowed tomb thy ashes holds,
No marble vain thy name unfolds,
Yet surely to that shore which gave
To thy cold limbs a watry grave,
The gentle spirits of the air
Shall oft with harp unseen repair,
And oft along that coast shall float
Soft music with a solemn note:
The sailor at the hour of night
Who steers beneath the moon's pale light
His vessel thro' the Indian main,
Wond'ring shall hear the melting strain,
And down his rough cheek as he hears
Shall glide involuntary tears.

Thus bending o'er the waves which roar
Against old Albion's rocky shore,
With strains which fancy, musing maid,
Invents to lend her votary aid
I strive to cheat my bosom's pain,
I strive, alas! too much in vain,
While sad remembrance to my mind
Still calls, with busy care unkind,
A brother in the Indian wave
Untimely sunk, and in that grave
Buried with him all in their prime
Fair hopes, and virtuous fires sublime.
O, shade of him whose memory dear
Calls from these eyes this streaming tear,
Forgive the verse that strives to frame
Some weak memorial of thy name.
Poor is the tribute of the lays
Which to thy dust a brother pays,
Yet shall the verse not flow in vain,
If aught avail the pious strain
To sooth with lenient note awhile
A parent's anguish, or beguile
These tears that streaming still anew
A gentle sister's cheek bedew,
Whose tender frame may ill I ween
Endure the shaft of sorrow keen.