Poems to Thespia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Who the bright Islands of the Atlantic main
Hath ranged, and pluck'd the fruit of ruddy gold,
Charming asleep the Dragon's watchful eye;
In early youth, ah! who hath join'd the train
Of sports, and pleasures, on that happy mould,
Where revels spring, and autumn smiling by
Pours his luxuriant gifts around;
Who hath his brows with myrtle crown'd,
And with the Loves and Graces danced,
While the boon Patron of the vine
And Nymphs the thyrsus who entwine
Forth from their cluster-bearing haunts advanced?

Ah! who, such raptures wont to taste,
Wreck'd on Afric's torrid waste,
Compell'd the burning sands by day to tread,
By night to pillow there his aching head,
Or fiend-like shapes, and monsters grim to find,
Disgustful to the sight, terrific to the mind;

139

Tho years on years have o'er him roll'd,
Tho resignation meek
Should smoothe his listless cheek,
And patience his toil-vanquisht limbs enfold;
Ah! who can e'er forget the scenes
He once with extasy survey'd,
The impurpled lawns, and living greens,
And forms in beauty's radiant bloom array'd?

Who can with fond idea fail
At intervals a transient glance to steal,
If haply he the distant skirts may view,
Where to the waves descends the horizon blue,
Of those dear regions of delight,
Where, waking from his dream, he knows
Fate ne'er will grant him to repose
On the sost banks with roses dight?
Who can upbraid him, if he longs
Once more to catch the warbled songs
Of harmony divinely sweet,

140

Which whilom in that blissful clime,
Ere fled irrevocable time,
From Fancy's liquid voice he used to meet?
Ah! who can blame him, hopeless where he strays,
Should he attempt with frantic lays
A semblance of the heavenly sounds
Erst wafted o'er those magic grounds,
Till the last strains of his once-tuneful breath
Enfeebled are by age, or choak'd by tyrant Death?