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Christina

the Maid of the South Seas; A Poem. By Mary Russell Mitford

Mitford, Mary Russell (1787-1855)

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TO SIR WILLIAM ELFORD, BART.

CHRISTINA, THE MAID OF THE SOUTH SEAS.

Canto the First.

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Canto the First.

“Ma per esser felici
“Che manca a noi? Qui siam sovrane. E questa
“Isoletta ridente il nostro regno;
“Sono i sudditi nostri
“Le Mansuete fiere. A noi produce
“La terra, il mar. Dalla stagione ardente
“Ci difendon le piante; i cavi sassi
“Dalla fredda stagion; nè forza, o legge
“Qui col nostro desio mai non contrasta,
“Or di', che basterà, se ciò non basta?”
METASTASIO.

O Love! in such a wilderness as this,
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,
And here thou art a God indeed divine.
CAMPBELL.

[I.]

The setting sun, with lurid ray,
Crimson'd the vast Pacific's spray;
The lowering welkin darker grew;
The sable rack low threatening flew;
And, thro' the gathering mist, the sun
Subdu'd in blood-red lustre shone;
Awhile, like some dark oracle
Which deals around its deadly spell,

Upon the ocean's verge it stood,
Then sank beneath the heaving flood.
And sailors spoke the word of fear,
“A dreadful storm is gathering near!”

II.

Columbia's vessel rode the main,
And proudly plough'd the watery plain;
Yet quail'd the seamen's courage true,
To mark the high wave's lowering hue,
The deepening shades fast closing round,
The distant thunder's rumbling sound;
And the bold captain frown'd to see
The lightning's fearful revelry.
A Briton calmly pac'd the deck;
Can storms the British spirit check?
That spirit which still higher soars,
As tyrant threats, or cannon roars!

No, firm as Albion's rugged rock,
He stemm'd old Ocean's rudest shock;
And, buoyant as the Highland gale,
Clung to the mast, and trimm'd the sail.

III.

Now the dark spirit of the storm
Uprears his grim and awful form!
The swelling waves rise mountain-high,
As if to search the viewless sky;
The ship, by struggling billows tost,
One moment, sinks between them lost,
Becalm'd and tranquil, as the lake
That smiles by Derwent's woody brake;
Whilst o'er her head, in dread repose,
The meeting waters seem to close:
The next, high o'er the ocean borne,
Sees her tough sails to atoms torn.

IV.

The dismal howling of the gale,
The thunder-claps, the rattling hail,
The wreck of elemental world,
In dizzy sound the senses whirl'd
Now the blue lightning flashes high
Like funeral torch across the sky!
Now deeper horrors shade the wave,
Like the chill darkness of the grave!
Scudding before the southern wind
The vessel's track lay far behind,
And midnight came amid their woes,
In tempests came, nor brought repose.

V.

Then to the sailor's anguish'd thought,
What pangs despair and memory brought!

They mus'd upon their quiet home
“What dæmon prompted them to roam?”
Of peace and comfort far away,
The tranquil cot, the woodfire gay;
And children, dearer far than life,
Betrothed maid, or faithful wife!
Whilst British Henry breath'd a prayer
For mother dear, for sister fair;
Then, with reliev'd and stainless heart,
Again resum'd his toilsome part.

VI.

The lightning ceas'd; the welkin clear'd,
And gayer hope each bosom cheer'd.
Still blew the gale, but milder far
Gleam'd silvery moon and twinkling star;
Slow roll'd the wave and regular,

And ere the lamp of night withdrawn,
Sunk in the first grey tints of dawn,
Bold Seymor, high upon the deck,
Descry'd afar a dusky speck;
And, onward as the vessel drew,
Darker and wider still it grew;
And all, who on the main deck stand,
Shout with according transport, “land!”

VII.

How many a fair and desert isle
Basks in the southern sunbeam's smile!
Numerous they glow upon the main,
Like stars that gem the peacock's train,
Whilst the high mountain's purpled blue
Brightens o'er Ocean's verdant hue.
Impatient for the dawn of day,
The sailors watch'd the glittering spray:

The sun arose upon the deep,
Mild as a cherub from its sleep!
And from the bright and rosy sky,
Stream'd light, and life, and majesty.

VIII.

Like emerald set in silver, lay
The green isle, 'mid the ocean spray,
Rocks inaccessible and steep
Abruptly rise, or grandly sweep,
Save where one sheltering harbour gave
Protection from the boisterous wave:
There the cliffs parted, wide and far,
From basin semicircular;
And the sooth'd billows ceas'd to roar,
And dimpled on the pebbly shore,
As, charm'd by that enchanted land,
The Ocean kiss'd the peaceful strand.

IX.

With quick surprise, and new delight,
The sailors view'd that island bright:
Fair as the fabled isles it rose,
Where erst Ulysses found repose;
Fair as those isles, which to the eyes
Of death-struck mariners arise,
The visions of the phrensied brain!
Or bubbles of the treacherous main!
So sweetly, yet so strangely, bright:
There fruits of every clime unite,
As if some fay, from Europe's shores,
Had cull'd the best and purest stores;
Had borne them to that balmy air,
To bloom in fresher beauty there;
And show the more than magic power
Of tasteful art in nature's bower.

X.

High to the clouds, on mountain free,
Rose plantain, palm, and cocoa tree;
Rose the gay fig, whose wondrous branch,
Bow'd down to earth, fresh roots can launch,
Which upward springs, to bend again,
And forms a thicket on the plain;
Rose too—unconscious instrument
Of crime and woe, to mortals sent!
That cane, whose luscious juice supplies
Europe's blood-purchas'd luxuries.
And there in native grandeur stood
Banana high, and Wharra's wood.

XI.

But not o'er hut or rude morai
Wav'd lofty bough or flexile spray;

No! those luxuriant branches fall
O'er garden trim, and cottage wall:
Cots, such as Thames' mild waters lave,
Or shine in Avon's mirror wave;
Where English peasants feel the power
Of evening's sweet domestic hour;
Where wearied veterans cease to roam;
Where comfort cries, “here is my home!”

XII.

Those gardens every beauty yield
Of Indian isle, or Europe's field.
Prone on the ground the melon lies,
Of different clime, of varied dyes;
That, of the tint of Hymen proud,
This, rosy as a summer cloud:
There, her rich fruit Anana rears
With coronet of verdant spears;

There, round the slender palm, intwine
The tendrils of the Gallic vine:
And every flower of richest dye,
That shrinks from England's stormy sky,
And fades beneath our tenderest care,
Blossoms in healthful beauty there;
And mingles with bright Indian flowers,
To deck the jasmine's fragrant bowers.

XIII.

From the far hill a streamlet spread
Its limpid waters o'er the mead,
Proud to reflect the lovely scene,
By that fair cot it roll'd serene;
High o'er the stream from woody ridge
Was thrown a rude and rustic bridge:
And now from off the blooming bank
A bright pair trod the simple plank,

In baskets, gayly deck'd, they bore
Refreshing fruits and flowery store.
The towering youth, the graceful maid,
Were both in Indian garb array'd;
But not a trace of Indian feature
Appear'd in either glorious creature:
For his warm blood as brightly glow'd
As if in British veins it flow'd;
And she—the roses of her cheek
Might shame the dawn's refulgent streak.

XIV.

Short was the time the maid to view;
For down her fragrant load she threw,
And, bounding o'er the dewy lawn,
The covert sought, like timorous fawn:
The youth undaunted, but amaz'd,
Still on the stately vessel gaz'd:

And Henry thro' his glass might spy
The quick glance of that eagle eye,
The lofty form, the stately grace,
The candor of that youthful face;
O never yet had Henry seen
So bright a form so sweet a mien!
Recovering from his short surprise,
Soon to the cottage door he flies;
Clears at a bound the cultur'd bed,
Nor breaks the fragile balsam's head.

XV.

Meanwhile the pinnace stands array'd,
To seek the stranger's generous aid:
And Henry, with youth's ardent hope,
Gave pride and fancy equal scope.
“Seymor,” he cried, “the English air
“I trace in yonder blooming pair:

“And can we aught from Britons dread,
“When want and tempest rend our head?
“O we shall find safe harbour here!
“And greeting free, and friendly cheer!”
The captain smil'd; for well he knew
The fervor of that bosom true:
A smile, where transient doubt was mix'd,
With kindness warm, serene and fix'd.

XVI.

O there are few, when age's frost
Their fire has chill'd, their ardor crost;
Few, who the selfish joy forego,
Of checking youth's aspiring glow!
Still fewer, to whose generous hearts
Nature the genial flame imparts,
Which, unextinguishably bright,
Gives but in age a blander light,

Which loves to catch the meteor blaze,
That darts across our early days:
Promethean fire! to mortals given,
The last best gift of bounteous Heaven!
Who the reflected warmth can feel,
And fan and feed the generous zeal!

XVII.

Such feeling in brave Seymor's breast,
All blame or bitter taunt represt.
Soon he an equal wonder felt,
Whilst on the bay his fix'd gaze dwelt:
There, in the self-same harbour, float
Indian canoe and English boat;
There gather'd soon a blooming band
Of youthful natives on the strand;
Clustering they sought the light canoe,
And o'er the glassy ocean flew.

The link'd ivahas, side by side,
Short poles at once, unite, divide:
In each four skilful rowers strain
Their sinewy limbs, and plough the main;
And either stem, high o'er the flood,
Like fabled mermaid, gorgeous stood:
Rose in the midst, the platform high,
With pillars deck'd and canopy,
Whose matted folds resplendent shone,
Like rainbow glittering in the sun.

XVIII.

Three youths it bore, of manly grace,
Of stature tall, and blooming face;
And one, on whose majestic form
Valour had stamp'd his signet warm,

Whilst wisdom dwelt within his eye,
And mercy breath'd in every sigh.
Such bark, on Otaheite's shore,
Full oft the feather'd warriors bore.
But these brave youths no breast-plates guard,
Nor spears to fling, nor shields to ward;
Freely their ample garments flow,
In graceful folds of spotless snow;
Save that a border richly dight,
Of vivid scarlet mantles bright,
And fringe, by rosy fingers twin'd,
Sports, like gay plumage, on the wind,
Where the long sash floats wild and free
In ever-varying drapery.

XIX.

Swift o'er the wave th' ivaha flew,
Till to the vessel's side she drew;

Then, on the seamen's wondering ear,
Fell their own native accents clear;
“Come ye from England o'er the sea?
“O welcome to our island free!
“To our rude fare, our prompt relief!”
(Cried the bright youth, who seem'd the chief,)
“For sure your vessel's shatter'd form,
“Bears tokens of the recent storm!”
“From England? No! Our course we bore;
“From the fair Trans-Atlantic shore;
“Branch torn from England's stately tree,
“Nurtur'd and watch'd by Liberty,
“Where Freedom, Nature, Man combine,
“To rear and guard the plant divine!
“To thee, most kind and generous youth,
“What thanks are due! In very truth
“The storm of yester-night has left,
“Our ship of all her stores bereft;

“And sails, and rigging torn away;
“Most welcome is this tranquil bay!”

XX.

Brave Seymor paus'd. With curious glance
To the high deck the youths advance;
The stranger scene attracts their eyes,
Each unknown form they scrutinize;
But still, the same ennobled grace
In word, in act, the sailors trace,
Of polish'd life they own the sense,
Savage alone in innocence!
Soon the young chief to Henry drew,
With stedfast, yet delighted, view:
“American, I love thee well!
“Yet is my father wont to tell
“Your wily arts, and cunning spell—

XXI.

“O he was self deceiv'd, unjust,
“Who warn'd thee not that race to trust,
“For they are open, bold and free,
“Liberal on shore, and brave on sea;
“Yet might I challenge his belief,
“For I am English, generous chief!”
O then to either valiant breast,
The noble Islanders were prest!
“My father is a Briton too!
“Come let us seek my light canoe!
“I long his exil'd heart to cheer;
“Captain, from us, no treachery fear!
“Our limpid spring, our stores, our care,
“'Tis all we have, your crew shall share.”

XXII.

The captain, and a chosen train,
In the light pinnace cross'd the main.
The long ivaha led the way,
Majestic, o'er the tranquil bay;
And soon they trod the pebbly shore,
And soon they reach'd the cottage door.
There stood a man, whose forehead sage,
Seem'd mark'd by sorrow, more than age;
His sallow cheek, and sunken eye,
Bore trace of ruin'd dignity;
And that blue eye, with sudden flash,
Oft told of passion's youthful clash,
Till pious tears the lightning quench'd,
And dew'd his locks by anguish blench'd.
Tall, spare, majestic was his mien,
His looks commanding, firm and keen,

Yet courteous too; he mildly sway'd,
Belov'd by all, by all obey'd.

XXIII.

With free and liberal grace, he gave
A welcome to the strangers brave,
But chief on Henry fix'd his eyes,
Whilst fond emotions seem'd to rise:
“Rest freely here, till ship and men,
“Recruited, sigh for sea again!
“For well I know that sailor's soul,
“Loves not in lazy bay to roll;
“Rather the stormy winds they brave,
“And stem the rude impetuous wave.
“But leave we now all distant care,
“To seek our cottage maiden's fare.”

XXIV.

They enter'd. Pleas'd humility
Was there, and there simplicity;
Yet elegance and rural grace,
Had join'd the lovely bower to trace.
Spacious, yet low, the casement round
A rich and clustering vine is bound;
Whose leaves exclude the sunbeams bright,
And shed a cool and tranquil light;
Yet, glancing thro' the foliage green,
One brilliant, trembling ray is seen,
Whose emerald lustre quivers round,
Like glow-worm's lamp on verdant mound.
On the white walls gay baskets hung,
With flowers in bright profusion flung,
Artless they seem'd. Yet art, amid
The rich confusion still was hid,

But dar'd not there assert her claim,
And borrow'd nature's honor'd name.
Between the baskets, charts appear'd,
And books in goodly rows were rear'd;
And wonder beam'd in every eye,
Such strange, unwonted sight to spy.

XXV.

High in the midst was spread a board,
With varied viands amply stor'd;
Yet scarcely gaze they on the fare,
Far brighter objects claim their care.
There a dark, graceful, matron band,
And there young, lovely maidens stand,
The Houri of that blissful land!
Like “black-ey'd girls of Paradise,”
Their witching smiles the soul entice:

Yet Henry sought the timid maid,
Who lightly flew across the glade;
But none so slender, tall and fair,
Or of so graceful form was there;
Young Hubert still, his Indian friend,
Sate by his guest his wants to tend.
“Say, fled there not, at peep of dawn,
“A stately maid across the lawn?
“With thee she pluck'd the flowery store,
“And wreaths of dewy blossoms bore.”

XXVI.

“Yes: And she blooms the fairest flower
“That decks the isle, on hill, or bower;
“The purest, sweetest, loveliest, best;
“Idol of every generous breast!
“To day in solitude and gloom,
“She meant to watch her mother's tomb;

“For now a year its course has run,
“Since set in death Iddeah's sun:
“With me she sought for flowerets fair,
“To hang in mournful garlands there.
“She fled at sight of stranger race,
“Nor dar'd approach the hallow'd place,
“Lest boisterous tongues, or glances rude,
“Invade her sacred solitude.
“For never yet that maiden's woes,
“To check our social pleasure rose,
“Her joy she shares, her grief's her own,
“Christina Christian weeps alone.”

XXVII.

“Christian!” As Hubert breath'd the name,
Suspicion quick to Seymor came;
For well he knew—who knows it not?
Misguided Christian's ruthless plot.

And he had read, with horror pale,
The suffering Bligh's heart-thrilling tale,
When from his gallant vessel driv'n,
Of every earthly comfort riv'n;
Remote from kind and friendly land,
The rebels chas'd his faithful band.
Still faithful, tho' the crowded boat
Scarce on that Southern wave can float;
Tho' ceaseless rain, and famine's rage,
Within, without, dire warfare wage;
Tho' haggard, worn, and tempest-tost,
Unbounded Oceans must be crost,
Ere the sad wanderers cease to roam,
And find a country and a home.

XXVIII.

Oft at that tale the sailor's tear
Has fall'n, for trials too severe;

Tear quickly dried by the warm rush,
Of admiration's ardent blush,
At that brave band's endurance high,
Their patience and their constancy!
And sudden as the thunder's clash,
The captain felt conviction's flash:
“It must be Christian whom I view!”
“Brave stranger would thy words were true!
“He lies where never mortal ken,
“Shall see the hero's form again.
“O would he were alive, to share
“My social joy, my pleasing care!—
“Yet well I read that asking eye;
“Tomorrow every doubt shall fly!
“'Tis a sad tale and long to tell;
“To-day I shun the mazy spell.
“But something I would ask—If still
“Bligh lives?—Oh! say we did not kill!”

XXIX.

“Yes, still he lives!” Would you had seen
The pallid chieftain's alter'd mien!
Like wretch from torturing wheel unbound,
Bewilder'd first he gaz'd around;
Scarce the life-giving words believ'd,
By doubt, by fear, in turns deceiv'd.
But when at length assurance came,
Joy seem'd to renovate his frame,
To raise his form to statelier grace,
Nerve his firm step, illume his face.
It flush'd his cheek, it lit his eyes,
Stole down in tears, and burst in sighs;
And meek devotion's silent prayer,
And ardent gratitude were there.

XXX.

At length the simple feast is o'er,
And Seymor quits awhile the shore.
Whilst Hubert and his father walk,
With Henry still in friendly talk;
The chief to the brave Briton clung,
And on each look, each accent hung;
He gaz'd upon his glowing face,
His slender form, his youthful grace;
And his admiring glance exprest
Warm kindness for his youthful guest.
“How cam'st thou here in foreign sail?”
And short was Henry's simple tale.

XXXI.

In lovely Monmouth's rural bowers
His mother past her widow'd hours:

Happy in age the peaceful home;
But youth adventurous loves to roam!
And he had sought that northern land,
Where nature frowns sublime and grand;
Where Mississippi's wondrous flood,
Bathes the tall giants of the wood;
And wild Ontario's lake rebounds
Niagara's hoarse deafening sounds.
With Seymor thence he came, to view
Scenes, manners, people, strange and new;
“And I have found,” he said and smil'd,
“An Eden blooming in the wild.”
Soon hospitable duty calls,
The chiefs within their cottage walls;
And Henry still enchanted, roves
Thro' deep ravines, or stately groves.

XXXII.

Far from the cot a path he found,
Which thro' a craggy valley wound;
On either side the foliage spread,
In verdant arches o'er his head;
Deep in the midst a chrystal rill,
Ooz'd gently from the lofty hill;
Whilst higher still the pathway bore,
And farther from the cultur'd shore;
Yet still the ocean's murmurs clear,
Soothing and calm salute his ear,
And fairer still the valley seems,
And brighter the sun's setting beams.
At length he reach'd a verdant mound,
With towering rocks and thickets bound:
There rose a sweet and shelter'd bower,
Deck'd with each gay and brilliant flower;

High o'er the arch the blossoms twin'd,
In one gay knot their charms combin'd;
He thought—what will not lovers think?
Christina's name compos'd the link.
And softer seem'd the turfy seat!
And lovelier bloom'd the fair retreat!

XXXIII.

The rippling brook, the whispering breeze,
The chirping birds that sought the trees;
To lull him to repose combin'd,
Fatigue of limb, and peace of mind;
But more than all, of recent birth
That form, which blended Heaven with earth,
And these shy hopes, which oft I deem,
Both lull to sleep and mould the dream.
He dream'd,—and still he thought he slept,
That to his side Christina crept;

Radiant, as when he saw the fair,
Her basket stor'd with flowerets rare;
To rouse him bent, the fragrant race
In vain she flung, with sportive grace;
Amidst his golden ringlets wound,
Or twin'd in rosy fetters round.—
Then chang'd the scene,—and he again,
View'd his dear home and native plain;
His sister, bright in maiden charms,
His mother clasp him in their arms;
And joyful friends his presence greet,
And rush, his warm embrace to meet.
Oh pure delight! O joy supreme!
Bliss unalloy'd!—'twas but a dream.

XXXIV.

'Twas but a dream!—And what is all,
That erring mortals pleasure call;

What is dominion? Kings can tell!
To ebb and flow in ceaseless swell,
Now rob'd in plenitude of power,
To sit in grandeur's stately tower,
Dethron'd and kill'd in one short hour!—
What countless wealth? The cherish'd pain,
The care, the doubt, the hope of gain.
Vain hope! were his Potosi's store,
The miser's soul would crave for more.—
What beauty? 'Tis the mirror's shade,
As fast the fairest features fade,
Till youth and charms and lovers gone,
Sad vanity remains alone.—
What literary fame? The strife
Of boundless mind with narrow life.—
What friendship? The poor man's last fall!—
What love? The veriest dream of all!—

XXXV.

At eventide the ocean crew,
Back to their stately vessel drew;
They deem'd, that by the chief retain'd,
Henry within the cot remain'd;
And he ne'er doubted, but in haste,
Unseen, amid the throng, he past;
Still slept the youth within the bower,
For many a calm refreshing hour;
And when he woke, the golden ray,
Which richly lit the jasmine spray;
Was chang'd to the fair silver stream,
Of the pale moon's faint quivering beam;
The breeze which lull'd him to repose,
With soften'd balm no longer blows;
But on his cold and icy cheeks,
The chilly gale of midnight breaks.

XXXVI.

He started up with wild surprise,
And scarce could trust his wondering eyes;
Scarce tell what power his form convey'd,
To that fair seat and fragrant shade.
Awaken'd memory soon recalls,
The chieftain's hospitable halls;
He strove the cheerful spot to gain,
And wander'd on, but still in vain;
For the wild wood and quivering light,
Obstruct his steps, delude his sight.
At length he came where shrubs were drawn,
Close round a smooth and level lawn:
In centre of the circle small,
Arose a rustic pedestal;
On which, in sweet and simple taste,
A monumental urn was plac'd.
Fair pillar! now, how richly grac'd!

XXXVII.

In flowing drapery array'd,
There stood a tall and slender maid.
O'er the smooth urn her form reclin'd,
One graceful arm around it twin'd;
Her lovely head was upward cast,
And caught the moon-beams as they past,
Shed their soft radiance, silvery cold,
On features of celestial mould;
Or wanton'd in the raven hair,
That floated on the midnight air.
Quench'd was the lightning of her eye,
Pale her fair cheeks' effulgent dye;
But beauty's pensive hour had given
An higher grace, a look of heaven.
She seem'd a sainted spirit hovering there,
Weeping for human sins and human care.

XXXVIII.

How wondrous in that tranquil hour,
Seem'd that still form in fairy bower!
You might have thought some magic hand,
Fix'd the fair statue on the strand,
Enchantress of that lovely land;
And tale, romance and legend high,
Press'd on the wanderer's fantasy.
He dar'd not move, he dar'd not speak,
So much he fear'd the spell to break;
His very breath he strove to stay,
Lest that fair form should fade away.
A cloud across the moon had past,
And deepening shades the tomb o'ercast;
Yet still young Henry linger'd nigh,
For he had heard a deep drawn sigh;

And soon, in accents soft and clear,
As ever breath'd in mortal ear,
In strains with silvery cadence fraught,
From the pure spring of feeling caught,
Seraphic strains, by nature given,
Arose a daughter's woe to heaven.

XXXIX. Christina's Song.

O chilly and damp is the mossy tomb!
And dark is the cheerless night!
But sadder far is the mourner's gloom,
Who wails o'er her lost delight!
The maidens they deck'd thy grave with flowers,
The death-dirge rang thro' the island bowers,

But sighs and groans were all that I gave,
And my tears alone bedewed thy grave.

The flowers are wither'd, the garlands are gone,
The dirge died away in the air;
And thou wert forgotten by all but one,
Ere the wreath had faded there.
They took me to dwell in the cot of the chief,
They said to me, Calm thy restless grief!
But her who is gone they cannot restore,
And still as they chide, I weep the more.

O mother! my mother! since thou art dead,
What comfort have they to give!
My only delight on earth is fled,
And still must Christina live!
Yet oft will I steal at midnight hour,
To deck thy cold tomb with tear and flower,

And when the rude storms of life are past,
With thee I will find my home at last.

XL.

Ceas'd the sweet strain. No echo shrill
Prolong'd the sound on dale or hill;
For echo loves the measure high,
Of proud and lordly minstrelsy;
The wild notes of the hunter's horn,
That rouse the stag at break of morn;
The clang of steel, the volleying roar,
That swells along the lake's steep shore;
War's noisy pomp, and deafening state,
The willing nymphs reverberate.
But the low notes of woe represt,
Their echo is the feeling breast.
Still, still in Henry's ear they dwelt,
Still his fond soul their magic felt.

XLI.

Oft had he bow'd to beauty's power,
In mirth and fashion's brilliant hour;
Hung on fair woman's playful wit;
Mark'd in the dance her light form flit;
Own'd her mute eloquence of eye;
And felt the magic of her sigh.
And he had seen her soft tear flow,
Dissolv'd in sympathetic woe.
Till changing like an April day,
Some frolic chac'd the gem away.
But never, never had he felt,
Such fleeting tears his bosom melt.
Ne'er seen that majesty of grief,
Which seeks nor pity nor relief;
Ne'er seen the silent drops, which lave
A cherish'd parent's humble grave.

And scarce the conscious youth can tell,
What stranger pangs his bosom swell;
For new-born love, and new-born awe,
Rule his fond heart with iron law;
And check the step that would pursue,
Her light form thro' the glittering dew,
As slow and sad the fair withdrew.

XLII.

Again the moon's pale rays illume,
And he has sought the rustic tomb;
Knelt where Christina trod the ground;
And clasp'd the urn's chill circle round.
Fresh flowerets deck the lowly shrine,
And gemm'd with dew drops, sparkling shine;
And he has stol'n a fragile stem,
Where trembling hangs the crystal gem,

“Too bright for earthly dew,” he cries,
“It fell from sweet Christina's eyes!”
The floweret to his heart he prest,
It seem'd to cool his burning breast;
He mus'd upon the lovely maid;
“Dwells she not with the chief?” he said;
“Dwells she not with the chief? Again
“Christina shall I hear thy strain!”
Then swift as roebuck sought the plain.

XLIII.

He gain'd the fair cot in the dale,
Awoke the chief and told his tale,
Of boat long gone, and comrades lost,
And fancy charm'd at hunger's cost;
But nothing said he of the maid,
Nor tongue nor mien his love betray'd;

Save that his piercing eye, intent
Upon the simple latch, was bent;
And every sound his light form shook,
Like winds that stir the ruffled brook.
The chieftain with attentive care,
Produc'd the sweet and simple fare,
And wisdom gay, good humor free,
Gave grace to hospitality.
Then to the sailor's hardy bed
His blooming guest assiduous led;
“Farewell! Fear nought from friends or foes,”
He said, and left him to repose.

The double canoes of Otaheite.