 | Poems of Freneau |  |
Written AT PORT ROYAL
in the island of Jamaica—September, 1784.
Here, by the margin of the murmuring main,
Fond, her proud remnants I explore—in vain—
And lonely stray through these dejected lands,
Cheered by the noon-tide breeze on burning sands,
Where the dull Spaniard, owned these mangrove shades,
And ports defended by his Pallisades—
Though lost to HIM, Port Royal claims a sigh,
Nor will the muse the humble gift deny.
Fond, her proud remnants I explore—in vain—
And lonely stray through these dejected lands,
Cheered by the noon-tide breeze on burning sands,
Where the dull Spaniard, owned these mangrove shades,
And ports defended by his Pallisades—
332
Nor will the muse the humble gift deny.
Of all the towns that graced Jamaica's isle
This was her glory, and her proudest pile,
Where toils on toils bade wealth's gay structures rise,
And commerce reared her glory to the skies:
ST. IAGO, seated on a distant plain,
Ne'er saw the tall ship entering from the main—
Unnoticed streams her Cobra's margin lave,
Where yond' tall plantains cool her flowing wave,
And barren sands, or rock-surrounded hill
Confess its founder's fears—or want of skill.
This was her glory, and her proudest pile,
Where toils on toils bade wealth's gay structures rise,
And commerce reared her glory to the skies:
ST. IAGO, seated on a distant plain,
Ne'er saw the tall ship entering from the main—
Unnoticed streams her Cobra's margin lave,
Where yond' tall plantains cool her flowing wave,
And barren sands, or rock-surrounded hill
Confess its founder's fears—or want of skill.
While o'er these wastes with wearied step we go
Past scenes of fate return, in all their woe,
Here for their crimes (perhaps) in ages fled,
Some vengeful fiend, familiar with the dead—
Through these sad shores, in angry triumph passed,
Stormed in the winds, and raged with every blast—
Here, opening gulphs confessed the Almighty hand,
Here, the dark ocean rolled across the land:
Here, house and boats a moment tore away,
Here, mangled man with deadly aspect lay,
Whom fate refused to end their rakeish feast,
And time to call the sexton, or the priest!
Past scenes of fate return, in all their woe,
Here for their crimes (perhaps) in ages fled,
Some vengeful fiend, familiar with the dead—
Through these sad shores, in angry triumph passed,
Stormed in the winds, and raged with every blast—
Here, opening gulphs confessed the Almighty hand,
Here, the dark ocean rolled across the land:
Here, house and boats a moment tore away,
Here, mangled man with deadly aspect lay,
Whom fate refused to end their rakeish feast,
And time to call the sexton, or the priest!
Where yond' tall barque, with all her ponderous load,
Commits her anchor to its dark abode,
Eight fathoms down,—where unseen waters flow
To stain the sulphur of the caves below;
There, midnight sounds torment the stranger's ear,
And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts there
Of ghosts all restless!—(cease they to complain—
More than a century should relieve their pain—).
Sad tunes of woe disturb the hours of sleep,
And Fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep;
Dull superstition hears the drowsy hum;
Smit with false terrors of THE WORLD TO COME.
Commits her anchor to its dark abode,
Eight fathoms down,—where unseen waters flow
To stain the sulphur of the caves below;
There, midnight sounds torment the stranger's ear,
And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts there
333
More than a century should relieve their pain—).
Sad tunes of woe disturb the hours of sleep,
And Fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep;
Dull superstition hears the drowsy hum;
Smit with false terrors of THE WORLD TO COME.
What now, Port Royal! rests of all your pride?—
Lost are your glories which 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 shattered roof on every hut appears,
And mouldering brick-work wakes the stranger's fears!
—A church, with scarce a priest, we grieve to see,
Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!—
One only INN with tiresome search was found,
Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round:
His was the task to wait the impatient call;
He was our landlord, post-boy, pimp—and all—
His wary eyes on every side were cast,
He saw the present—and revolved the past)
They here, now there, in quick succession stole,
Glanced at the bar, or watched the—unsteady bowl.
Lost are your glories which 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 shattered roof on every hut appears,
And mouldering brick-work wakes the stranger's fears!
—A church, with scarce a priest, we grieve to see,
Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!—
One only INN with tiresome search was found,
Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round:
His was the task to wait the impatient call;
He was our landlord, post-boy, pimp—and all—
His wary eyes on every side were cast,
He saw the present—and revolved the past)
They here, now there, in quick succession stole,
Glanced at the bar, or watched the—unsteady bowl.
No sprightly lads, or handsome Yankee maids,
Rove in these wastes or wander in these shades—
No charmers here, with lively step, are seen
To court the shade, or wander on the green—
To other lands past time beheld them go;
And some are slumbering in the deep—we know—
A negro tribe, but ill their place supply,
With bending back, short hair, and vengeful eye—
That gloomy race lead up the evening dance,
Skip on the sands, or dart the alluring glance:
Rove in these wastes or wander in these shades—
No charmers here, with lively step, are seen
To court the shade, or wander on the green—
To other lands past time beheld them go;
And some are slumbering in the deep—we know—
A negro tribe, but ill their place supply,
With bending back, short hair, and vengeful eye—
That gloomy race lead up the evening dance,
Skip on the sands, or dart the alluring glance:
Sincere are they?—no—on your gold they doat—
And in one hour—for that would cut your throat.
All is deceit—half hell is in their song
And from the silent thought?—You have done us wrong!
And in one hour—for that would cut your throat.
All is deceit—half hell is in their song
And from the silent thought?—You have done us wrong!
334
A feeble rampart guards this luckless town,
Where banished Tories come to seek renown,
Where hungry slaves their little stores retail,
And worn out veterans watch the approaching sail.
Where banished Tories come to seek renown,
Where hungry slaves their little stores retail,
And worn out veterans watch the approaching sail.
Here, scarce escaped the wild Tornado's rage
Why came I here to plan some future page?
To these dull scenes with curious view, who came
Should tell a story of some ancient fame—
Not worth the search!—What roofs are left to fall,
Guns, gales, and earthquakes will confound them all—
All will be lost!—though hosts their aid implore,
The Twelve Apostles shall protect no more,
Nor guardian heroes save the impoverished plain,
No priest, shall paw-paw—and no church remain—
Nor this Palmetto yield her evening shade
Where the dark negro his dull music played,
He casts his view beyond the adjacent strand,
And looks, still grieving, to his native land:
Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore,
And points to Gambia—he must see no more!
Where shall we go?—what Lethé can we find,
To drive the devil's ideas from the mind?—
No buckram hero can relieve the eye;
And buckram dresses shine—most mournfully!
Why came I here to plan some future page?
To these dull scenes with curious view, who came
Should tell a story of some ancient fame—
Not worth the search!—What roofs are left to fall,
Guns, gales, and earthquakes will confound them all—
All will be lost!—though hosts their aid implore,
The Twelve Apostles shall protect no more,
Nor guardian heroes save the impoverished plain,
No priest, shall paw-paw—and no church remain—
Nor this Palmetto yield her evening shade
Where the dark negro his dull music played,
He casts his view beyond the adjacent strand,
And looks, still grieving, to his native land:
Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore,
And points to Gambia—he must see no more!
Where shall we go?—what Lethé can we find,
To drive the devil's ideas from the mind?—
No buckram hero can relieve the eye;
And buckram dresses shine—most mournfully!
Ye mountains vast! whose base the heaven sustain:
Farewell, blue mountains, and fair Kingston's plain.
Though nature here almost herself transcends,
On this gay spot the dear attachment ends!—
Farewell, blue mountains, and fair Kingston's plain.
Though nature here almost herself transcends,
On this gay spot the dear attachment ends!—
Who would be sad, to leave a sultry clime,
Where true Columbian virtue is a crime:
Where parching sands are driven by every blast,
And pearl to swine are by the muses cast—
Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside;
And boisterous gales impell the imperious tide.
Where true Columbian virtue is a crime:
Where parching sands are driven by every blast,
And pearl to swine are by the muses cast—
Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside;
And boisterous gales impell the imperious tide.
Ye stormy winds! awhile your wrath suspend—
Who leaves the land, a female and a friend;
Quits this bright isle for a dark sea, and sky—
Or even Port-Royal leaves—without a sigh!—
Who leaves the land, a female and a friend;
335
Or even Port-Royal leaves—without a sigh!—
[w. 1784]
1788
Pallisades a narrow strip of land about seven miles in length, running nearly from north to south, and forming the harbours of Port Royal and Kingston.—
A small river falling into Kingston Bay, nearly opposite Port Royal—and which has its source in the hills beyond Spanish Town.
Old Port-Royal contained more than 1500 buildings, and these for the most part large and elegant. This unfortunate town was for a long time reckoned the most considerable mart of trade in the West Indies. It was destroyed on the 17th of June, 1692, by an earthquake which in two minutes sunk the greater part of the buildings; in which disaster near 3000 people lost their lives.
| Poems of Freneau | |