The miscellaneous works and novels of R. C. Dallas ::

Written after visiting a remarkable grotto in the parish of St. Ann's in Jamaica. In one of the lofty chambers of it, there were some large stones of extraordinary appearance. One particularly had the figure of a man, nearly as described in the following ode. The features of the face had been delineated (if the author was rightly informed) by Mr. Long, the historian of Jamaica; the rest of the figure was evidently a lusus naturæ.

While in the Grotto's gloomy cells
We press'd the devious way,
Through many a chamber that expels
With fretted roofs the day;
Where darkness darken'd with extent,
Seen by the rays our torches lent,
Or one just straggling from above,
That night's deep visage distant show'd,
Black'ning the arch of her abode,
A vast Cimmerian grove,

Melpomene, in mournful vein,
Sibylla's theme to inspire,
To melancholy gave the strain,
And symphoniz'd the lyre:
In a grey cell the hermit sat,
Remote from man; the skulking bat

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Companion of his murky cave:
His head was canopied with stone,
Or water into chrystal grown,
Fix'd in a solid wave.

Of stone himself the hermit seem'd,
In meditation lost:
With sparry gems his garments gleam'd,
In many foldings crost:
A shining beard fell down his breast,
An elbow on his knee found rest,
The arm upheld his reverend cheek:
All vow'd the hermit was but stone,
When in a mellow awful tone,
All heard the hermit speak.

“Go on, ye busy curious train,
“Your active walks pursue,
“Which Melancholy shall disdain
“To mark with ebon hue.
“Still trip it in the prosperous glare;
“Ye ne'er shall see my footsteps there;
“I shun the bustling crowded court:
“In lonely grove or darksome room
“I dwell, and cast an awful gloom
“On all who near resort.

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“Go on, ye busy prating crew,
“Ye take the happier part;
“Ne'er shall my tear your cheeks bedew,
“Nor sorrows press the heart:
“Grief on light minds can never last,
“A gloom, perhaps in rising past,
“Scarce clouded e'er again 'tis bright;
“'Tis not the calm yet deep-fetch'd sigh,
“The glowing soul that melts the eye,
“And dims the fairest light.

“Ah far! still far, my haunts avoid;
“A solitary road;
“Some yew tree shade or cavern wide,
“A gloomy drear abode.
“Come ye! whom musing fancy leads
“O'er awful philosophic meads,
“Who weigh of life each parting hour:
“Or ye, who Fortune's dross despise,
“Yet still must feel, if off she flies,
“The loss of generous power.

“And ah! beware ye generous youth
“Too prompt to yield the heart:
“One hand the villain lifts to soothe,
“The other holds the dart.

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“Your unsuspecting bosoms know
“With nature's genial warmth to glow,
“Warm friendships and fond loves enjoying:
“But ah! the faithless crew beware,
“They are not, what they seem, sincere,
“And live but by destroying.

“Near to this cavern's rocky ground
“A lofty standard grew;
“His foliag'd branches spread around,
“Most comely to the view:
“A creeping vine that grovell'd nigh
“The tree receiv'd and rais'd on high,
“Pleas'd to support the wanton wreath:
“The usurping tendril wreathes too free;
“The parasite becomes the tree,
“The standard's hugg'd to death.

“Come too, ye born of Sympathy,
“Whom social woes depress,
“To Melancholy's haunts be free,
“Your hearts partake distress;
“Ye turn and agonize each thought
“With the keen pangs of mortal lot,
“Give sigh for sigh, and groan for groan:
“Pale misery ye contemplate,
“Of others feel the wretched fate,
“And make it all your own.

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“And ye who court, but court in vain,
“Health's cheerful, roseate boon;
“Whose hours are tarnish'd o'er with pain,
“Whose joys are fled too soon:
“Like poor Eugenia, form'd to please,
“Yet doom'd the victim of disease,
“Where Sol pours forth his torrid day:
“Vain is her form, her song is vain,
“She charms, but languid sinks again
“Beneath the fervid ray.

“And come, ye sons of simple heart,
“Who are not fain to chuse,
“But doom'd to hug the fatal dart,
“And taught by Love to muse:
“Though unavailing sighs are wind,
“Still paint the angel on your mind,
“Still hope the beauteous maid may turn;
“Still see her smile, still think ye hear
“Soft-flowing words that more endear,
“In fancied raptures burn.

“Come, thou black fugitive of woe,
“Who fliest the torturing scourge;
“Whose blood is taught through pores to flow,
“Whom thongs to labour urge!
“And thou, the bolder brother, thou,
“Whom Afric never taught to bow,

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“To bondage rebel and to toil,
“Bold Cromantee! whose fruitless strife
“But rivets more thy chain for life,
“But makes each link a coil.

“Come, all ye sable sons of earth,
“Spurn'd by the fairer race;
“Made slaves by commerce or by birth,
“To Reason's sad disgrace:
“Once wanderers on your native fields,
“Where Nature ample nurture yields;
“Here come and mourn your social lot:
“Quench early at the neighbouring spring,
“A plain repast from breadnuts bring,
“Or tax the tyrant's spot:

“Thence mellow avocadoes gain,
“Nor spare his roost or fold;
“The plantain thence and juicy cane;
“Whence Afric's bonds are told:
“Your portion seize ere yet day dawn,
“By nature and by hunger drawn;
“No theft—with ease of conscience blest—
“Then to this desert cave retire,
“Here kindle oft your friendly fire,
“And sink to sleep and rest.

“Go hence, ye vain explorers! go!
“Whose thoughts from self ne'er rove—

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“Yet learn this truth, ah! learn to know
“All bliss must spring from love:
“For love of God, and love of man,
“Extend our nature's bounded plan;
“Let tropic tyrants call it folly:
“'Tis vice, not man, I strive to shun—
“Ye thoughtless sons of vice begone!
“Ye know not melancholy.”

University of Virginia Library

THE CAVERN OF MELANCHOLY:

AN ODE.