Ne'er saw the tall ship entering from the main,
Unnoticed streams her Cobra's margin lave,
Where yon tall plantains shade her glowing wave,
And burning sands, or rock-surrounded hill
Confess its founder's fears-or want of skill.
While o'er these wastes with wearied step I go,
Past scenes of death return, in all their wo,
O'er these sad shores, in angry pomp he pass'd,
Moved in the winds, and raged with every blast-
Here, opening gulphs confess'd the Almighty hand,
Here, the dark ocean roll'd across the land,
Here, piles on piles an instant tore away,
Here, crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay,
Whom fate scarce gave to end their noon-day feast,
Or time to call the sexton, or the priest.
Where yon tall bark, with all her ponderous load,
Commits her anchor to its dark abode,
Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow,
To quench the sulphur of the caves below:
There midnight sounds torment the sailors ear,
And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts there,
Sad songs of wo prevent the hour of sleep,
And fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep;
Dull Superstition hears the ghostly hum,
Smit with the terrors of the world to come.
What now is left of all your boasted pride!
Lost are those glories that 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 shatter'd roof o'er every hut appears,
And mouldering brick work prompts the traveller's fears; A church, with half a priest, I grieve to see,
Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!—
One only inn with tiresome search I found
Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round ;-
His was the part to wait the impatient call,
He was the landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all;
His wary eyes on every side were cast,
Beheld the present, and revolved the past,
Now here, now there, in swift succession stole,
Glanced at the bar, or watch'd the unsteady bowl.
No sprightly lads or gay bewitching maids
Walk on these wastes, or wander in these shades;
To other shores past times beheld them go,
And some are slumbering in the caves below;
A negro tribe but ill their place supply,
With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye;
A swarthy race lead up the evening dance,
Trip o'er the sands and dart the alluring glance:
A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town,
Where banish'd tories come to seek renown,
Where worn out slaves their bowls of beer retail,
And sunburnt strumpets watch the approaching sail.
Here (scarce escaped the wild tornado's rage,)
Why sail'd I here to swell my future page!
To these dull scenes with eager haste I came
To trace the relics of their ancient fame,
Not worth the search!-what domes are left to fall,
Guns, gales, and earthquakes shall destroy them all-
All shall be lost!-though hosts their aid implore,
The Twelve Apostles shall protect no more,
Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish'd plain;
No priest shall mutter, and no church remain,
Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade,
Where the dark negro his dull music play'd,
Or casts his view beyond the adjacent strand,
And points, still grieving, to his native land,
Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore,
And pants for countries he must see no more.
Where shall I go, what Lethe shall I find
To drive these dark ideas from my mind!
No buckram heroes can relieve the eye,
And George's honors only raise a sigh—
Ye mountains vast, whose heights the heaven sustain,
Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston's plain,
Where nature still the toils of art transcends-
In this dull spot the enchanting prospect ends:
Where burning sands are wing'd by every blast,
And these mean fabrics but entomb the past;
Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside,
And threatening moons advance the imperious tide,
Ye stormy winds, awhile your wrath suspend;
Who leaves the land, a bottle, and a friend,
Quits this bright isle for yon blue seas and sky,
Or even Port Royal quits-without a sigh!
ALL we know of this writer, is that he was a clergyman, and died at Hopkinton, in Massachusetts, December 16th, 1788, in the 43d year of his age. He wrote a poem in blank verse, called The Beauties of Religion, and a short piece entitled The Choice. These were published at Providence, the year after his death.
THE BEAUTIES OF RELIGION.
THE pencil dipp'd in various hues, to paint
Great nature's works, affords a sweet repast.
The mind with pleasing views of God is fill'd,
His beauteous works more beautiful appear,
Which captivate the heart the more they 're view'd,
And imitation gives more perfect charms.
On fancy's wings ascend the Aonian mount,
And let thy pencil sketch the landscape wide;
Paint the Castalian fount, rising from foot,
Meandering thence through many a flowery mead,
Blooming with violet and jessamine.
On this side paint a row of lofty elms,
Waving with negligence their branching arms;
On that let rows of spruce and evergreens
Extend through country villages and towns,
With birds of every kind perch'd on their boughs.
Paint cities then extending on the banks,
Whose thousand glittering spires dazzle the morn;
And on the placid waves make boats descend
With streamers gay, and with their silken sails,
Swell'd with Favonian breeze, the breath of eve.
Fields next with growing harvests paint,
And verdant pastures, fill'd with flocks and herds;
And far beyond, a rising wood of pine,
And cedar, ash and maple, oak and fir,
With shade o'er shade, as in a theatre,
Till topmost boughs are lost among the clouds.
A lively green to southward make appear,
Sloping far distant to the ocean broad,
Where lofty ships ride on the foaming main.
Far to the north, over a valley huge,
Let the sight end abrupt, 'midst rocks and trees:
Paint nature here dress'd in her negligee,
A sylvan scene, with virgin tresses crown'd;
Nor let luxuriant fancy go behind
Luxuriant nature in her wild disports.
To westward then a winding path, with trees
Of goodliest shade, and bowers by nature form'd,
From whence a gliding stream may be discern'd;
Now roaring down a horrid crag, and then
With gentle murmurs wind along the glade.
Paint sweet-brier hedges to perfume the air,
With pinks and roses strow the eglantine,
And crown it with the lily's graceful head.
Above let golden orange, nectarine,
With cherry, plumb and peach, apple and pear,
Bend branches low, tempting the hand to pluck.
Along the ground let all the charming race
Of berries creep; and then this motto place:
"Fair works of nature are the works of God,
And God in all his beauteous works is seen."
Or Plymouth in New Hampshire, wrote a small volume containing The Royal Penitent, and David's Lamentation over Saul and Jonathan, published at Concord in 1791. The first of these is founded upon a portion of the history of King David, and shows a very respectable talent for versification.
THE ROYAL PENITENT. PART II.
DEATH'S angel now, commission'd by the Lord,
O'er the fond infant holds the fatal sword;
From the dread sight the frantic father turns,
And, clad in sackcloth, in his chamber mourns;
The monitor, within the royal breast,
That long had slept, now roused at length from rest,
Holds forth a mirror to the aching sight,
Seizes the mind that fain would take its flight
Bids it look in:-and first, Uriah stood,
Arm'd for the fight, as yet unstain'd with blood;
Courage and care were on his brow combined,
To show the hero and the patriot join'd:-
Next, pale and lifeless, on his warlike shield,
The soldiers bore him from the bloody field.
"And is it thus? (the Royal mourner said)
"And has my hand perform'd the dreadful deed?
Was I the wretch that gave thee to the foe,
And bade thee sink beneath the impending blow?
Bade every friend and hero leave thy side?—
Open, O earth! and in thy bosom hide
A guilty wretch who wishes not to live;
Who cannot, dares not, ask for a reprieve;
So black a crime just Heaven will not forgive!
Justice arrests thy coming mercy, Lord-
Strike then, O strike, unsheath thy dreadful sword:
Accursed forever be the hated day,
That led my soul from innocence astray;
O may the stars, on that detested hour,
Shed all their influence with malignant power,
Darkness and sorrows jointly hold their reign,
When time, revolving, brings it round again.
Ye injured ghosts, break from the silent tomb,
In all the fearful pomp of horror come,
Breathe out your woes, and hail the dreadful gloom.
Why does not injured Israel now arise,
Proclaim my madness to the avenging skies,
Hurl quick the sceptre from my bloody hand,
While marks of infamy my forehead brand?
No time shall e'er the dreadful act conceal-
No tongue shall fail its horrors to reveal--
Eternity, upon its strongest wing,
Shall bear the deeds whence all my sorrows spring.
Unhappy man!-ah! whither shall I turn?
Like Cain, accurst, must I for ever mourn?
On beds of silk in vain I seek repose-
Uriah's shade forbids my eyes to close;
No bars exclude him—to no place confined,
Eager he still pursues my flying mind:
Not all the crowd that bow at my approach,
Nor guards that thicken round the gilded couch,
Can with their arms, or martial air, affright,
Or drive the phantom from my wearied sight.
Whene'er I view the diamond's varied rays,
|