Bello Montae: or, the Misfortunes of Anna D'Arfet A Nautic Poem. Written at the island of Madeira, in 1784, by Captain Edward Thompson |
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 | Bello Montae: or, the Misfortunes of Anna D'Arfet |  |
1
BELLO MONTÈ;
OR, THE MISFORTUNES OF ANNA D'ARFET.
Far loftier Bards have humbler subjects sung,
And sweeter words have flow'd from Denham's tongue;
But Cooper's Hill, nor Windsor Forest's fame,
With Bello Monte can aspire to claim.
Though Classic Bards on these have dipt the quill,
I've gather'd Roses upon Cooper's Hill:—
But Cooper's Hill would not inspire the vein
Of Poesy, to me, like Denham's strain.
Had Bards as chaste these scenes majestic view'd,
The Verses, like the Theme, had not been rude:
But here, alas! the Muses never rove,
Though fairer this than Aganippe's Grove.
Thy Hill, Parnassus, and thy silver streams,
The Muse's Fancy, and the Poet's dreams,
Do not surpass the waters and the woods,
The lofty mountains, and the boundless floods;
The various trees which consecrate these shades,
Or crown the valleys, and adorn the glades!
And though no Naiads guard the silver rills,
Or Fauns or Satyrs revel on the hills;
Nor Pan, nor old Sylvanus deign to rove,
And hang their garlands in this golden Grove.—
If the gay Flora, of romantic fame,
To these fair Florets ne'er bequeath'd a name,
Their blossoms wither not, nor colours fade;
They reign and bloom sweet tenants of the shade.
So far remov'd upon th'Atlantic Main,
No Muses cross the seas, to tune their strain:—
And placid Camoens, too, the Country's pride,
The soothing music of his tongue deny'd.
Rough and undress'd, unpolish'd and unprais'd,
Like the brown Maidens that her lands have rais'd,
Long she remain'd—till Murray's happier taste
Dress'd Bello Monte on the rural waste!
And gave a fane to Friendship, Verse, and Love,
Which future Bards in softer strains may prove.
Fairest of all fair Isles, that seas surround—
With native graces, matchless beauties crown'd!
Farewell!—ethereal scenes—elysian bowers!
Deck'd with the fairest trees—the sweetest flowers!
Stupendous rocks of deep Saint Lucia's Vale,
Thy Fiends of solemn Incantation, hail!
Hail—and farewell! and all the kinder fays,
Which haunt thy moon-light scenes—and shun the rays
Of the effulgent Sun!—whose gorgeous beam
Dissolves their spells as it exhales the stream.—
Genii farewell! but list the Poet's pray'r,
And make the Vineyards your peculiar care!
Horace himself, in Tivoly, had prais'd
Thy wines, beyond what his Falernum rais'd.
Murray farewell!—Nor, should elysian gales,
Soft as thy Consort's breath, attend our sails,
Yet when we bid this flow'ry shore adieu,
Our sighs alone will bear us far from you!
Blest Isle, with youths and beauteous Maidens crown'd,
Where once the sea-beat bark kind anchorage found,
Which gave two Lovers to thy flow'ry shore;
And eyes yet clos'd shall weep their story o'er.
And sweeter words have flow'd from Denham's tongue;
But Cooper's Hill, nor Windsor Forest's fame,
With Bello Monte can aspire to claim.
2
I've gather'd Roses upon Cooper's Hill:—
But Cooper's Hill would not inspire the vein
Of Poesy, to me, like Denham's strain.
Had Bards as chaste these scenes majestic view'd,
The Verses, like the Theme, had not been rude:
But here, alas! the Muses never rove,
Though fairer this than Aganippe's Grove.
Thy Hill, Parnassus, and thy silver streams,
The Muse's Fancy, and the Poet's dreams,
Do not surpass the waters and the woods,
The lofty mountains, and the boundless floods;
The various trees which consecrate these shades,
Or crown the valleys, and adorn the glades!
And though no Naiads guard the silver rills,
Or Fauns or Satyrs revel on the hills;
3
And hang their garlands in this golden Grove.—
If the gay Flora, of romantic fame,
To these fair Florets ne'er bequeath'd a name,
Their blossoms wither not, nor colours fade;
They reign and bloom sweet tenants of the shade.
So far remov'd upon th'Atlantic Main,
No Muses cross the seas, to tune their strain:—
And placid Camoens, too, the Country's pride,
The soothing music of his tongue deny'd.
4
Like the brown Maidens that her lands have rais'd,
Long she remain'd—till Murray's happier taste
Dress'd Bello Monte on the rural waste!
And gave a fane to Friendship, Verse, and Love,
Which future Bards in softer strains may prove.
5
With native graces, matchless beauties crown'd!
Farewell!—ethereal scenes—elysian bowers!
Deck'd with the fairest trees—the sweetest flowers!
Stupendous rocks of deep Saint Lucia's Vale,
Thy Fiends of solemn Incantation, hail!
Hail—and farewell! and all the kinder fays,
Which haunt thy moon-light scenes—and shun the rays
Of the effulgent Sun!—whose gorgeous beam
Dissolves their spells as it exhales the stream.—
Genii farewell! but list the Poet's pray'r,
And make the Vineyards your peculiar care!
Horace himself, in Tivoly, had prais'd
Thy wines, beyond what his Falernum rais'd.
Murray farewell!—Nor, should elysian gales,
Soft as thy Consort's breath, attend our sails,
6
Our sighs alone will bear us far from you!
Blest Isle, with youths and beauteous Maidens crown'd,
Where once the sea-beat bark kind anchorage found,
Which gave two Lovers to thy flow'ry shore;
And eyes yet clos'd shall weep their story o'er.
In time remote, in our Third Edward's Reign,
The glorious Victor upon Cressy's Plain!
Robert a Machin, an adventrous Boy,
A mother's darling, and a father's joy;
Smitten in Love with Anna D'Arfet's charms,
Resolv'd to win the Maiden to his arms:
For he possess'd a handsome form, and parts
Which could not fail to gain fair Ladies' hearts.
He lov'd, and su'd in such a pleasing strain,
To list, what Maid, like Anna, could refrain!
She heard the love-tun'd music of his tongue,
And own'd the conquest, while the Lover sung.
The glorious Victor upon Cressy's Plain!
Robert a Machin, an adventrous Boy,
A mother's darling, and a father's joy;
Smitten in Love with Anna D'Arfet's charms,
Resolv'd to win the Maiden to his arms:
For he possess'd a handsome form, and parts
Which could not fail to gain fair Ladies' hearts.
7
To list, what Maid, like Anna, could refrain!
She heard the love-tun'd music of his tongue,
And own'd the conquest, while the Lover sung.
Short was, alas! this mutual promis'd joy—
Her parents scorn'd her marriage to the Boy;
And forc'd the Maid to give her white, cold hand,
To a more wealthy Noble of the land:
Bound him in prison—and bound her a Bride,
The equal sacrifice of Lust, and Pride.
Her parents scorn'd her marriage to the Boy;
And forc'd the Maid to give her white, cold hand,
To a more wealthy Noble of the land:
Bound him in prison—and bound her a Bride,
The equal sacrifice of Lust, and Pride.
The Nuptial Knot, the worst of knots, ill made,
When only tied for folly and parade,
The Rites completed; and those Rites forsworn,
The lovely Wife was all in sorrow borne,
To the old mansion where her husband dwells,
Not far from Clifton and her silver wells;
Where, for soft words a Lover sweetly spoke,
She heard the husband and the dull Rook's croak;
Yet 'midst the gloom of croaking Aunts and Rooks,
And feeding sorrow with the saddest books,
She heard with rapture that her Lover's fate
Was free!—which calm'd her melancholy state.
But what the state, where Love's soft dart ne'er sped,
But forc'd and drag'd within a marriage bed.
When time was young, this lovely Helen found,
Where to the frigid Menelaus bound.
But Love, the active, tender, generous Boy,
Reliev'd her cares, and spread her wings for Troy.
Cupid, not less the friend of Machin's years,
Whose constant sighs kept pace with Anna's tears,
Rous'd up the Youth from melancholy grief,
And to his sinking soul propos'd relief.
Cupid, who acts the Pantomime of Love,
And can't a trick of folly disapprove,
If e'er the aged Father weds the Lass,
Soon makes him horns, and shews them in his glass:
So he impregnated our Hero's brain
With quaint device, his Beauty to regain.
When only tied for folly and parade,
The Rites completed; and those Rites forsworn,
The lovely Wife was all in sorrow borne,
8
Not far from Clifton and her silver wells;
Where, for soft words a Lover sweetly spoke,
She heard the husband and the dull Rook's croak;
Yet 'midst the gloom of croaking Aunts and Rooks,
And feeding sorrow with the saddest books,
She heard with rapture that her Lover's fate
Was free!—which calm'd her melancholy state.
But what the state, where Love's soft dart ne'er sped,
But forc'd and drag'd within a marriage bed.
When time was young, this lovely Helen found,
Where to the frigid Menelaus bound.
But Love, the active, tender, generous Boy,
Reliev'd her cares, and spread her wings for Troy.
Cupid, not less the friend of Machin's years,
Whose constant sighs kept pace with Anna's tears,
9
And to his sinking soul propos'd relief.
Cupid, who acts the Pantomime of Love,
And can't a trick of folly disapprove,
If e'er the aged Father weds the Lass,
Soon makes him horns, and shews them in his glass:
So he impregnated our Hero's brain
With quaint device, his Beauty to regain.
'Twas Anna's custom, every morn to ride
Through the green wood, or down the river's side—
He therefore thought, the humbler servant's place
Would be the readier means to find her grace:
His service offer'd, he is hir'd, and tried,
And a Groom's dress the Lover's form belied.
'Twas noon of day, within the thicket's shade,
When he reveal'd his person to the Maid:
As quick as light'ning he review'd her charms,
And the first step he flew into her arms!
Tears, kisses, mutual raptures interchang'd,
He told the scheme his warmest thoughts arrang'd:—
That, would she venture on the smooth sea tide,
He had a ship should bear them far and wide,
To some kind Coast, where no stern parent's awe
Should wound that Love, which Liberty made Law.
To this she yields, without remorse or care,
And the next morn, the ship receiv'd the pair.
The Spouse deluded, and the voy'ge begun,
In brilliant lustre sat the Western Sun.—
Down Severn's rapid stream they turn'd their prow,
Sweet smil'd the eve, and soft the breezes blow:
While gayly sliding through the liquid realm,
Beauty commands the course, and Youth the helm.
Regardless of the lurking storm, they steer
For France, when of the rugged Scilly clear.
But the wind rises, and more orient blows,
And the bark feels the tempest as it grows;
Dark dismal night her long black mantle spreads,
And ruthless ruin hovers round their heads.
The braces break, tacks, sheets, and bow-lines strand,
The sails outrageous, scorn the Sailor's hand!—
No points can reef, alas! no gaskets bind,
They split in ribbands, and they mount the wind.
The morning lazy limps to lead the day,
In vain it's kind approach they hail, they pray;
And when it breaks, 'tis in a sullen sort;
Their Bark's dismantled, and in sight no port!
In vain they invocate the Gods to spare;
For Heaven to them seems deaf as billows are.
Toss'd on the pathless Main, they range at large,
Without a compass, or a pilot's charge.
Such adverse fate did sage Ulysses prove,
Depriv'd of Ithaca, his crown, his love.
Yet the kind Gods but punish for a time—
For Love in Heav'n is never deem'd a crime.
The Guardian Angel never left their side,
But sooth'd the Lover and the flying Bride;
And when long thirteen bitter days were o'er,
The sun with lustre shone, unknown before,
And his rays beam'd on this Elysian shore!
Cœlestial omen of their happy fate,
Birds came in pairs to gratulate their state;
Perch'd without fear upon each mast and yard,
And shew'd in song their welcome and regard.
Ye Gods! what raptures on our Lovers grew—
Escap'd the sea, and such a shore in view!
Crown'd with Elysian scenes and Golden groves,
To make them happy and indulge their loves.
Through the green wood, or down the river's side—
He therefore thought, the humbler servant's place
Would be the readier means to find her grace:
His service offer'd, he is hir'd, and tried,
And a Groom's dress the Lover's form belied.
10
When he reveal'd his person to the Maid:
As quick as light'ning he review'd her charms,
And the first step he flew into her arms!
Tears, kisses, mutual raptures interchang'd,
He told the scheme his warmest thoughts arrang'd:—
That, would she venture on the smooth sea tide,
He had a ship should bear them far and wide,
To some kind Coast, where no stern parent's awe
Should wound that Love, which Liberty made Law.
To this she yields, without remorse or care,
And the next morn, the ship receiv'd the pair.
The Spouse deluded, and the voy'ge begun,
In brilliant lustre sat the Western Sun.—
Down Severn's rapid stream they turn'd their prow,
Sweet smil'd the eve, and soft the breezes blow:
11
Beauty commands the course, and Youth the helm.
Regardless of the lurking storm, they steer
For France, when of the rugged Scilly clear.
But the wind rises, and more orient blows,
And the bark feels the tempest as it grows;
Dark dismal night her long black mantle spreads,
And ruthless ruin hovers round their heads.
The braces break, tacks, sheets, and bow-lines strand,
The sails outrageous, scorn the Sailor's hand!—
No points can reef, alas! no gaskets bind,
They split in ribbands, and they mount the wind.
The morning lazy limps to lead the day,
In vain it's kind approach they hail, they pray;
And when it breaks, 'tis in a sullen sort;
Their Bark's dismantled, and in sight no port!
12
For Heaven to them seems deaf as billows are.
Toss'd on the pathless Main, they range at large,
Without a compass, or a pilot's charge.
Such adverse fate did sage Ulysses prove,
Depriv'd of Ithaca, his crown, his love.
Yet the kind Gods but punish for a time—
For Love in Heav'n is never deem'd a crime.
The Guardian Angel never left their side,
But sooth'd the Lover and the flying Bride;
And when long thirteen bitter days were o'er,
The sun with lustre shone, unknown before,
And his rays beam'd on this Elysian shore!
Cœlestial omen of their happy fate,
Birds came in pairs to gratulate their state;
13
And shew'd in song their welcome and regard.
Ye Gods! what raptures on our Lovers grew—
Escap'd the sea, and such a shore in view!
Crown'd with Elysian scenes and Golden groves,
To make them happy and indulge their loves.
Anna, whose mind was in a state of grief,
Found from the flatt'ring shore but small relief:
Yet heard with joy the proposition made,
Of the calm shelter of the verdant shade.
From a dank bark, how sweet the scene was chang'd—
The Ocean lost, and Paradise regain'd!
Not our first parents, in their happy state,
Could show more gratitude, or supplicate
The Gods with greater zeal of heart in prayer,
For such deliverance and protecting care.
Machin then took fair Anna by the hand,
And led her smiling to the promis'd land;
And while his grateful vows to Heaven he made,
He plac'd the Dame beneath the Cedar's shade.—
Not Eve more lovely, in the genial hour,
When Adam led her to the Nuptial Bow'r!
Here rivers flow'd, and poet's laurels grew,
And flow'ry mountains charm'd the distant view.
Pleas'd and content, with boughs they made abodes,
And nam'd this Tree, their Altar to the Gods.
Blest in themselves, each hour new raptures grew,
For this was Nature, Love, and Eden, too.
Happy they lay beneath the wild tree's boughs,
And with the morning sun gave Heaven their vows;
Entranc'd they slept within each others arms,
They knew no mischief, and they fear'd no harms;
Pleas'd, they look'd down upon the silver bay,
Heard the loud surf, and saw the mounting spray!—
With kind ideas ken'd their bark again,
And bless'd the sails which bore them o'er the Main!
But ah! how short, how transient is the joy
Of human happiness, when fiends employ
Their diabolic machinations, powers,
To plant rank weeds, and root up fairest flowers.
And where's the man so lucky in his lot,
Whom all false fiends and Genii have forgot?
For the good Angel of the happy hour,
Cannot protect us from their evil pow'r.
Found from the flatt'ring shore but small relief:
Yet heard with joy the proposition made,
Of the calm shelter of the verdant shade.
From a dank bark, how sweet the scene was chang'd—
The Ocean lost, and Paradise regain'd!
Not our first parents, in their happy state,
Could show more gratitude, or supplicate
14
For such deliverance and protecting care.
Machin then took fair Anna by the hand,
And led her smiling to the promis'd land;
And while his grateful vows to Heaven he made,
He plac'd the Dame beneath the Cedar's shade.—
Not Eve more lovely, in the genial hour,
When Adam led her to the Nuptial Bow'r!
Here rivers flow'd, and poet's laurels grew,
And flow'ry mountains charm'd the distant view.
Pleas'd and content, with boughs they made abodes,
And nam'd this Tree, their Altar to the Gods.
Blest in themselves, each hour new raptures grew,
For this was Nature, Love, and Eden, too.
Happy they lay beneath the wild tree's boughs,
And with the morning sun gave Heaven their vows;
15
They knew no mischief, and they fear'd no harms;
Pleas'd, they look'd down upon the silver bay,
Heard the loud surf, and saw the mounting spray!—
With kind ideas ken'd their bark again,
And bless'd the sails which bore them o'er the Main!
But ah! how short, how transient is the joy
Of human happiness, when fiends employ
Their diabolic machinations, powers,
To plant rank weeds, and root up fairest flowers.
16
Whom all false fiends and Genii have forgot?
For the good Angel of the happy hour,
Cannot protect us from their evil pow'r.
Now had the Moon obtain'd her fullest orb,
Her baneful influence did the mists absorb,
Which round her front the portent halo spread,
The certain presage of a tempest dread;
Signs yet unknown to Sailors raw and new,
Who had no knowledge, and no danger knew.
The sulph'ry mountain, whose electric pow'rs
Stop'd ev'ry flying cloud, and drew their show'rs
Upon the hard, parch'd, dried, and thirsty earth,
Which drank the waters, and gave vapour birth;
And with the rains collected all the winds
That fill'd the atmosphere—these Nature binds
Within the circle of electric charm,
Till charg'd, and swol'n too high, they burst in storm:
Impetuous sweep along the mountain's side,
And bear down all that dare oppose their tide—
Thunder and light'ning dire, attendants dread!
Remorseless burst on their poor sylvan shed—
Give horror to the scene, and every mast,
Or stately tree, attracts the fiery blast.
Ruin and mischief in the storm attend,
And Nature shrinks, as verging to her end!
Birds leave their boughs, and screaming seek the caves,
But borne from land, rush headlong to the waves:
Others more strong upon the pinion rise,
And losing land, they wander thro' the skies,
Till worn and spent upon the flagging wing,
Chance, or good-fortune, some kind ship may bring,
Whose masts and yards a resting place may lend,
And prove, like Noah's Ark, the Dove's last friend.
Small the poor bird's last hope, no ship to save,
Faint and worn out, she drops into the wave.
The winds, the rains, the surf upon the shore,
The Monster's yell, and the loud thunder's roar,
Brought ev'ry horror upon Anna's breast,
That could in darkness break the human rest!
In agonies she seiz'd her Lover's hand,
And call'd the seas less cruel than the land:
Distress'd, they rush'd within each other's arms,
The last poor shield from miseries and harms.
Thus clasp'd together, torn with inward grief,
No words could give her tortur'd heart relief.
Distress upon distress to ruin tend—
The woeful presage of a woeful end!
Amidst her conflict, and the war of life,
The mental and the elemental strife,
Thus on her knees to Heaven her hands she rais'd,
And while she wept her fate, the Gods she prais'd!
Her baneful influence did the mists absorb,
Which round her front the portent halo spread,
The certain presage of a tempest dread;
Signs yet unknown to Sailors raw and new,
Who had no knowledge, and no danger knew.
The sulph'ry mountain, whose electric pow'rs
Stop'd ev'ry flying cloud, and drew their show'rs
Upon the hard, parch'd, dried, and thirsty earth,
Which drank the waters, and gave vapour birth;
17
That fill'd the atmosphere—these Nature binds
Within the circle of electric charm,
Till charg'd, and swol'n too high, they burst in storm:
Impetuous sweep along the mountain's side,
And bear down all that dare oppose their tide—
Thunder and light'ning dire, attendants dread!
Remorseless burst on their poor sylvan shed—
Give horror to the scene, and every mast,
Or stately tree, attracts the fiery blast.
Ruin and mischief in the storm attend,
And Nature shrinks, as verging to her end!
Birds leave their boughs, and screaming seek the caves,
But borne from land, rush headlong to the waves:
Others more strong upon the pinion rise,
And losing land, they wander thro' the skies,
18
Chance, or good-fortune, some kind ship may bring,
Whose masts and yards a resting place may lend,
And prove, like Noah's Ark, the Dove's last friend.
Small the poor bird's last hope, no ship to save,
Faint and worn out, she drops into the wave.
The winds, the rains, the surf upon the shore,
The Monster's yell, and the loud thunder's roar,
Brought ev'ry horror upon Anna's breast,
That could in darkness break the human rest!
In agonies she seiz'd her Lover's hand,
And call'd the seas less cruel than the land:
Distress'd, they rush'd within each other's arms,
The last poor shield from miseries and harms.
Thus clasp'd together, torn with inward grief,
No words could give her tortur'd heart relief.
19
The woeful presage of a woeful end!
Amidst her conflict, and the war of life,
The mental and the elemental strife,
Thus on her knees to Heaven her hands she rais'd,
And while she wept her fate, the Gods she prais'd!
“Ye wise, offended Powers, who rule the skies,
“Who dart the light'ning—bid the tempest rise;
“Who to the welkin lift the foaming wave,
“And save the vessel from the wat'ry grave;
“Hear a sad Penitent's repenting pray'rs,
“And spare the Wretch whom Love has curs'd with cares!
“Spare the Companions of her adverse lot;
“Their fortunes mend, and be her crime forgot.”
She said, and sunk upon her Machin's breast,
So worn with grief, she cou'd not fail to rest:
She slept, with all that blush upon her face,
That conscious Eve acquir'd from Sin's disgrace.
But if as frail—she was at least as fair,
And, bless'd with all her sense, was curs'd with all her care.
“Who dart the light'ning—bid the tempest rise;
“Who to the welkin lift the foaming wave,
“And save the vessel from the wat'ry grave;
“Hear a sad Penitent's repenting pray'rs,
“And spare the Wretch whom Love has curs'd with cares!
“Spare the Companions of her adverse lot;
“Their fortunes mend, and be her crime forgot.”
20
So worn with grief, she cou'd not fail to rest:
She slept, with all that blush upon her face,
That conscious Eve acquir'd from Sin's disgrace.
But if as frail—she was at least as fair,
And, bless'd with all her sense, was curs'd with all her care.
Now had the Sun his burnish'd mantle spread,
When the sad Lovers left their sylvan bed;
And, after sending contrite vows to Heaven,
At once to prosper, and to be forgiven,
They cast their eyes upon the tranquil Bay
With anxious hope, their vessel to survey—
But ah! how slightly were their comforts buoy'd—
The ship was gone, and all their hopes destroy'd!
This Anna felt with such surpassing woe,
That her blood chill'd—and ever ceas'd to flow;
Speechless she stood, lifting her hands to God,
And sunk, Love's Martyr, on the clay-cold sod.
On Machin yet she fix'd her dying eyes,
And seem'd to say, “Oh bear me to the skies!”
When the sad Lovers left their sylvan bed;
And, after sending contrite vows to Heaven,
At once to prosper, and to be forgiven,
They cast their eyes upon the tranquil Bay
With anxious hope, their vessel to survey—
But ah! how slightly were their comforts buoy'd—
The ship was gone, and all their hopes destroy'd!
21
That her blood chill'd—and ever ceas'd to flow;
Speechless she stood, lifting her hands to God,
And sunk, Love's Martyr, on the clay-cold sod.
On Machin yet she fix'd her dying eyes,
And seem'd to say, “Oh bear me to the skies!”
Machin, the cause of all this Fair-one's woe,
Felt to the soul the sharpness of the blow:
He sought no poignard's point, no poison's pow'r;
His death was certain, for the stroke was sure.
Dissolv'd in tears, then speaking to his friends,
As o'er her pale and stretch'd out corse he bends:—
“Ye sad Companions of my cares and crimes,
“My woes have led ye to these lonely climes—
“Oh! what atonement equal to your claim,
“Can I propose, or how conceal my shame?
“What reparation can I make or give?”
They answer'd—“Calm your mind, return, and live.”
“Never, Oh never can this broken heart
“Collect its pow'rs, or draw the bearded dart!
“Short, very short my vital time will be.—
“Beneath the Altar, under this fair Tree,
“Place the two bodies of your faithful friends,
“Whose loves and lives were hapless to their ends;
“And on the bark our sad misfortunes tell,
“That those may read, who love as true and well.
“And if in future time some christian feet,
“By chance should visit this forlorn retreat;
“In pity to our story and our fate,
“When this inscription shall our deaths relate,
“Let them, Oh let them give our griefs a sigh—
“Not live like us, but learn of us to die;
“And on this hallow'd spot, this sacred sod,
“Erect a Church to Jesus, Saviour, God!”
This said, his soul thro' all life's portals prest;
He sigh'd, he sunk, he died on Anna's breast!
Her friends, the sad attendants of their doom,
Laid them together in the grassy tomb.
Felt to the soul the sharpness of the blow:
He sought no poignard's point, no poison's pow'r;
His death was certain, for the stroke was sure.
Dissolv'd in tears, then speaking to his friends,
As o'er her pale and stretch'd out corse he bends:—
“Ye sad Companions of my cares and crimes,
“My woes have led ye to these lonely climes—
22
“Can I propose, or how conceal my shame?
“What reparation can I make or give?”
They answer'd—“Calm your mind, return, and live.”
“Never, Oh never can this broken heart
“Collect its pow'rs, or draw the bearded dart!
“Short, very short my vital time will be.—
“Beneath the Altar, under this fair Tree,
“Place the two bodies of your faithful friends,
“Whose loves and lives were hapless to their ends;
“And on the bark our sad misfortunes tell,
“That those may read, who love as true and well.
“And if in future time some christian feet,
“By chance should visit this forlorn retreat;
23
“When this inscription shall our deaths relate,
“Let them, Oh let them give our griefs a sigh—
“Not live like us, but learn of us to die;
“And on this hallow'd spot, this sacred sod,
“Erect a Church to Jesus, Saviour, God!”
This said, his soul thro' all life's portals prest;
He sigh'd, he sunk, he died on Anna's breast!
Her friends, the sad attendants of their doom,
Laid them together in the grassy tomb.
If ever chance, or kind affection, leads
Some tender Lovers thro' Madeira's meads,
To this sad spot, where their poor reliques lie,
Oh give their grave a flow'r, their fate a sigh!
And while your tears their sad afflictions move,
Nor be as wretched, but as fondly love.
Some tender Lovers thro' Madeira's meads,
To this sad spot, where their poor reliques lie,
Oh give their grave a flow'r, their fate a sigh!
24
Nor be as wretched, but as fondly love.
Now Time his rapid Car at length had driv'n
Full seven journeys round the sun of Heav'n;
When, by those friends escap'd, the woeful theme
Flow'd in full tide up Tagus' golden stream.
So fair an Island, and so sad a Tale,
Cou'd but invite to spread the anxious sail.
The bold Gonsalvo did the Isle explore,
And for the deed the name of Camara bore.
His second Voyage, the partner of his side,
The fair Almayda, his illustrious Bride,
With his two daughters, left their native strand,
And many Maids of Lisbon's flow'ry land.
Their pious act, when first they gain'd the Isle,
Was to erect a monumental Pile;
And in procession, every year, they gave
The Rose and Myrtle to their hallow'd grave:
Which to this time Madeiras' Maids prolong;
And Bards unborn shall give their Loves a song.
If their hard fate some wand'ring Muses claim,
These lines shall not be last, or least in fame.
Full seven journeys round the sun of Heav'n;
When, by those friends escap'd, the woeful theme
Flow'd in full tide up Tagus' golden stream.
So fair an Island, and so sad a Tale,
Cou'd but invite to spread the anxious sail.
The bold Gonsalvo did the Isle explore,
And for the deed the name of Camara bore.
25
The fair Almayda, his illustrious Bride,
With his two daughters, left their native strand,
And many Maids of Lisbon's flow'ry land.
Their pious act, when first they gain'd the Isle,
Was to erect a monumental Pile;
And in procession, every year, they gave
The Rose and Myrtle to their hallow'd grave:
Which to this time Madeiras' Maids prolong;
And Bards unborn shall give their Loves a song.
If their hard fate some wand'ring Muses claim,
These lines shall not be last, or least in fame.
And thou, Johanna,
chastest, sweetest Maid,
By Parents injur'd, and by Love betray'd;
If the kind Bard cannot reverse thy fate,
Or free thy Beauties from the Convent grate;
Still he can give those charms eternal bloom,
And raise thy name immortal on thy doom;
Record thy Love in never-fading verse,
Which truests Maids shall weep, and Swains rehearse;
And while thy fame and constancy they tell,
Say, with a sigh, “Here fair Johanna fell!”
Fell by her Parents' cruel hands—and prove,
That all her crimes were—Beauty, Truth, and Love!
By Parents injur'd, and by Love betray'd;
26
Or free thy Beauties from the Convent grate;
27
And raise thy name immortal on thy doom;
28
Which truests Maids shall weep, and Swains rehearse;
And while thy fame and constancy they tell,
Say, with a sigh, “Here fair Johanna fell!”
Fell by her Parents' cruel hands—and prove,
That all her crimes were—Beauty, Truth, and Love!
FINIS.
Camoens is the only Poet of reputation that Portugal has produced. He was a sublime Bard, as well as an adventurous Mariner—or we had never been charmed with the music of his Lyre, in the Poem of the Lusiad. But Nature seems to say, it was not only necessary that she should produce so great, so bold, so daring a Sailor, as Vasca de Gama—But that she was equally stimulated and compelled, to raise a Poet to record those glorious actions which his mind enterprized, and his hand executed. To Mr. Julius Mickle we are indebted for an elegant Translation of this Work, which rescues the Poet of Portugal from the tattered garb he was compelled to wear in this country, made by Fanshaw.
But although we must allow great merit to this nautick Composition, yet we cannot be so highly charmed as to allow him a rank with Homer, Virgil, or Ovid; and though he trod on the heels of some sing-song Italian Poets, he must bow to the superior Muses of Britain. Great merit is due to his fancy, in giving birth to the Vision of the Tempest of the Cape—Few things are superior to the dignity of this passage. But we devote much time and patience, to sail with him through the Indian Seas; and fight on the burning sands of Malabar.
Some people have hastily said, that Mr. Mickle's Translation excells the Original—This is not saying much for Camoens; as Mr. Mickle is but a minor Poet of our tongue.—One would imagine the Scotch Bard entertained such an idea, when he attempted to seat Camoens on the top of Parnassus, under the Laurel of the great Apollo; but as the first Julius fell at the foot of Pompey's statue, the second never rose above the majesty of Camoens.
The Portuguese Sailors offer up the sails of a successful Voyage to St. Anthony, and carry them to the Church in holy and festive procession; giving some price to Charity, when they redeem them for a succeeding voyage. English Sailors ridicule this as a puling superstition.—More modest and religious men may think it a pious and a grateful acknowledgment to the Deity for their deliverance, and navigable protection. It is often a want of sense and decency in Englishmen, to scoff at every Foreign custom, without reflecting, that many of their own are founded in ignorance, and produced in folly.
Juan Gonsalvo, on his first voyage, came to a Cave, from whence issued a number of Sea Wolves; and he named it Camera dos Lobos, or, The Cave of the Wolves. On the 26th of September, 1433, King Duarte, in memory of his father Juan, and his brother Prince Henry, decreed, as a testimony for the discovery of the Isle, and the adventure of the Cave, that Gonsalvo Zarco should take upon him the stile and title of Earl of Camara dos Lobos, with the arms sinople in a tower argent, supported by two Sea Wolves, and charged with a cross Or; which name and arms the family bear to this day.
Donna Johanna, a young Lady of youth, wit, and beauty, is the daughter of one of the most noble and considerable families in Madeira. She unfortunately fixed her affections on a youth unequal in birth and fortune to herself, which produced her father's indignation, who forced her to the Convent of the Incarnation, where she now remains, a weeping monument of hapless love and rigorous resentment.
However, though her confinement began in 1782, she has yet resisted the Veil; and all the arts and importunities of the Sisterhood, to leave the world for a monastic life. And to shew her sense of the injustice of the punishment, as well as her abhorrence of the unnatural deception put upon the human mind, she dresses in the gay character of the world; and with the exterior garments of freedom, weeps the loss of that liberty she cannot regain. Her release depends on the will of the Queen of Portugal, to whom a reference of her case is made; and she is to wait the royal pleasure, for her discharge or her perpetual confinement within the cold and dreary walls of a mouldering, melancholy cloister.
The following Sonnet was written on the amiable Donna Johanna's being forced from Society to a Convent.
Lo! from yonder Cloister's ruin
Fair Johanna waves her hand:
She, poor Maid, for Freedom's suing,
To regain the flow'ry land.
Fair Johanna waves her hand:
She, poor Maid, for Freedom's suing,
To regain the flow'ry land.
Hear me, ev'ry lovely Maiden,
Sisters of Madeira's Isle;
Come with choicest garlands laden,
To the dreary, mould'ring pile.
Sisters of Madeira's Isle;
Come with choicest garlands laden,
To the dreary, mould'ring pile.
Myrtles green, and roses blooming,
Scatter round the holy shrine;
Your chaste vows, without presuming,
May relent the Powers divine.
Scatter round the holy shrine;
Your chaste vows, without presuming,
May relent the Powers divine.
Save a Sister sunk in terror,
Withering in her virgin bloom:
Love, fair Maids, was all her error—
Must a Cloister be her doom?
Withering in her virgin bloom:
Love, fair Maids, was all her error—
Must a Cloister be her doom?
A few days after writing the above, the following complimentary Epigram was sent to the Author.
ILLUSTRISSIMO COMMANDANTI EDUARDO THOMPSON EPIGRAMMA.
Inclite Commandans, Classem Rege! Grata renidensRespuit auxilium nostra Joanna tuum.
Arma virosque geris, non gaudia dulcis amoris
Conveniunt quæ simul non bene Mars, et Amor,
Et nunc non sævi viget alta potentia Martii.
Solus amor pugnans, omnia vincit amor.
Si que juvare vales Nymphæ nunc ferto levamen,
Si crimen nescis, crimen amoris abet.
Ecce reclusa jacens, te forte ridente, gemebit
Illa manet plorans, per mare lætus ibis.
| Bello Montae: or, the Misfortunes of Anna D'Arfet | |