BARBADOES, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
LONDON: 
 
 J. MOVES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE. 
 
BARBADOES, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 a> 
 
 By M: J! CHAPMAN, Esq. 
 
 The bearded fig, 
 Prince of the forest, gave Barbadoes name. 
 
 5>v Graingeb, 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 JAMES FRASER, REGENT STREET. 
 
 1833. 
 

 
/ 
 
 5">* 
 
 TO 
 
 SIR ASTLEY COOPER, Bart. 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 AS A HEARTY THOUGH INEFFICIENT MONUMENT 
 
 OF RESPECT FOR HIS PRIVATE WORTH, 
 
 OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS AND PUBLIC SERVICES, 
 
 AND OF GRATITUDE FOR HIS PERSONAL 
 
 KINDNESS TO HIMSELF, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
■ 
 JTITAHO 10 . 
 
 HIT 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 That a Poem on one of the islands of the West 
 Indies, written by a native of the scene, should 
 excite public attention, the Author has little hope. 
 He is not aware of any poem expressly on the 
 West Indies, excepting Mr. Grainger's on the 
 " Sugar-Cane." The title of Mr. Montgomery's 
 is a misnomer. He should have called it at once 
 " The Slave-Trade." 
 
 In all that relates to the local objects, and to 
 the state of society, the Author has scrupulously 
 adhered to the literal truth. The subject is inter- 
 esting ; and, whatever his deficiencies may be, he 
 claims credit for attempting at least to do justice 
 to his country. To stop the current of frantic 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 innovation, that threatens with almost instant 
 ruin both colonies and empire, is (by human 
 means) perhaps impracticable ; but to protest 
 against it, is not unbecoming the patriot or the 
 poet. 
 
 For the larger as well as the smaller Poems, 
 the Author claims the indulgence that should 
 be conceded to a first publication. The different 
 parts of the day are the links, however slight, 
 by which the several portions of " Barbadoes" 
 are kept together. 
 
. laviii atJTMaa 
 
 . ■■ ' 41 JiO J J 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 iASH 
 
 
 
 - , 
 
 PAGB 
 
 BARBADOES. Part I. .................. i 
 
 Part II. • 43 
 
 Notes ......... 85 
 
 Q, I 3 ' ■• • lid J 3 ; ' : ! - 1 1 
 
 J^ttsceUancous ^Sosms. 
 
 THE LOVER'S LAMENT. In Four Parts. 
 
 I. Morning Ill 
 
 II. Noon • 115 
 
 III. Evening 118 
 
 IV. Night 122 
 
 CAIN • ■ 126 
 
 NAPOLEON 130 
 
 LUCRECE • 132 
 
 SPRING '-...139 
 
 NOBILITY 141 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF SIMONIDES • 143 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER 145 
 
 XERXES 146 
 
 THE GUINEA MAID > 148 
 
 AFRICAN DIRGE 153 
 
 WHILE OTHERS SING THE WARRIOR'S PRAISE 155 
 
 WHAT IS A SIGH .-157 
 
 \ FAR AWAY, FAR AWAY! 158 
 
 EPIGRAM • 159 
 
 SWEET IS THE BREATH OF SPRING 160 
 
 SWEET IS THE VOICE OF BIRDS 161 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 GENTLE RIVER! FLOW ALONG 162 
 
 THE VIOLET GROWS IN THE VLE 163 
 
 OH ! NEVER IN HALL OR IN h WER 164 
 
 WHEN THE HEART THAT ONCrJ ADORED THEE 166 
 
 HEART OF IRON ! CANST THOU FEEL? 168 
 
 CAN PRISON-BARS OR DUNGEON-WALLS 170 
 
 HIGH IN STATE THE MAIDEN SITS 172 
 
 HERE IN THY LAST BED SLEEP, THOU LONE ONE! 174 
 
 DUTCH WAR-SONG 175 
 
 MARION! MARION! COME TO THE WINDOW 1/7 
 
 LOOK ON THE FLOWER OF THE FIELD 179 
 
 HOME 181 
 
 THRENODIES 183 
 
 BRING ROSES ! 188 
 
 ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS? 190 
 
 VENI, CREATOR 192 
 
 THE FLOOD CAME AND TOOK THEM ALL AWAY 193 
 
 ODE 195 
 
 HYMN 198 
 
 HARP OF JUDAH 200 
 
 ODE 202 
 
 HYMN 205 
 
 FROM JOB, Chap. Ill 207 
 
 JOB, Chap. IV 209 
 
'V 
 
 BARBADOES. 
 
 PART I. 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 Introduction. The associations by which one's country is en- 
 deared to him. The changes that have taken place in Barbadoes 
 since its settlement. Disappearance of several tribes of ani- 
 mals. A description ofthe humming-bird. Last Charib. Sun- 
 rise. Negroes proceed cheerfully to their work. Rural objects. 
 The fall of volcanic dust. Morning continued. The shore at 
 that time delightful . Cocoa-nut trees. The manchineel. The 
 murex. Story of Hercules. Shells. Shell-work. The animal 
 flower. Rural scenery. Yarico. Slavery denounced. English 
 serfs. Indian slaves. Negroes imported : not yet in a state for 
 freedom, which is of slow growth. Consett's Bay. Codring- 
 ton College. Hackleton's Cliff. Scotland. Black-rock. Maria. 
 The trade-wind. Negroes at noon retire to their cottages. 
 The patriarchal relation between master and slave. Conclusion 
 to Part I. 
 
 Ou vttpiTos, out ag %Ufiav ToXvg, .... 
 'AAA' cclu ZzQvqoio XiyuTMiovrus unroe,? 
 y £lx,iuvo$ civi'/i(riv ocvoc^/v^uv Giv$Q6j<7rou;' — Homer. 
 
 Kai to) fjch vaiovav ciK's^ia, Qvph s%ovtz$ 
 
 'Ev fjt,ay,u,£OJV vwoiiri vtoiq 'tlxzoivov p>a.6uhivYiv 
 
 "OXfiiot r,paz;, Tolffiv ftiXr/idia x,ctg<zrov 
 
 To); ztzo; MXXovtoc (pi^u Z^'tloo^og ccqovqo.' — Hesiod. 
 
 .... 'ivOa, fjcazuQuv 
 
 \CCffOi Ct)XZCCVidi$ 
 
 uZ^a.1 vrzoi'z'vzoio'iv, ctvfaftx T& ^pytrov (pxiyzt, 
 
 to. fjdv %zp<r6fov «t' uyXccojv ozvogicov, voooo o u,k\a tyigfiu. 
 
 Pindar. 
 
BARBADOES. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Over the waste of waters ! to the isles 
 Where, with unfading beauty, Summer smiles ; 
 Where, mid the splendours of the glowing west, 
 The happy, fables say, enjoy their rest, — 
 With Saturn's train, through vocal gardens rove, 
 Or, loitering, linger in the bowers of love ; 
 Or, welcomed by the daughters of the deep, 
 In coral palaces are sung to sleep ; 
 While thronging fast to hear the song divine, 
 The charmed dolphins crowd the hyaline ; 
 Where nature loves to revel and to reign, 
 On hill and vale, on mountain and the plain ; 
 And shapes of beauty skim the sparkling air, 
 And the rich bloom of flowers and fruitage share ;- 
 Where all is clear, and beautiful, and bright, 
 The day of Eden, and Assyria's night. 
 
4 BARBADOES. 
 
 Over the waters ! wheresoe'er I roam, 
 My heart returns to memory's cherished home ; 
 To thee, fair island ! where I saw the light 
 Of my first day, and bless'd my mother's sight — 
 Mother no longer ! thou art passed away, 
 Nor can thy son his nursing debt repay ; 
 Thine eyes shed gladness on my soul no more, 
 And cold thy heart, that ne'er was cold before ; 
 But in my heart's own world thou livest yet, 
 Dear object of my love and fond regret ! 
 
 My own dear island ! fairest, brightest gem 
 In that sea-crowning, graceful diadem, 
 Which royally the old Atlantic wears, 
 And wore in secret for a thousand years, 
 Till the bold Spaniard found his own bright world, 
 And over unknown realms his flag unfurled. 
 How dear to me that pearl-drop of the west ! 
 'Twas there I hung upon my mother's breast ; 
 Twas there sun, moon, and stars first shone for me, 
 The daedal earth, and ocean's majesty ; 
 Twas there, from Nature's book — sea, earth, and sky, 
 I early learned the heart's morality ; 
 To know the Power that framed them was divine, 
 And feel their Maker must be also mine. 
 There, like one stranded on a fairy land, 
 I plucked the odorous flowers that wooed my hand, 
 
BARBADOES. 
 
 And found new wonders as I trod along, 
 
 And heard the blackbird's chirp — the negro's song : 
 
 There the first friendships of my early youth 
 
 Were formed in holy innocence and truth ; 
 
 There first I felt the strange and thrilling gush 
 
 Of new-born passion at a maiden's blush ; 
 
 And drank fond madness from dew-floating eyes, 
 
 And deemed the bower of love was paradise. 
 
 How changed that island from the savage scene 
 Of bearded monsters with their heads of green ; 
 While mid the tangled umbrage frightful stood 
 The native prince — the wild man of the wood ! 
 Surprised, and filled with superstitious dread, 
 The sea-tossed Lusitanian saw and fled ; 
 Sighed for the Tagus, and resolved no more 
 To hunt the ocean for the Spaniard's shore. 
 But now no more, a wild and savage lair, 
 It shelters monsters ; now of forest bare, 
 And scant of solitary trees, that tell 
 Of olden times, when the vast arches fell 
 Of leafy arcades, and there thundered down 
 To th' planter's axe the monarch with his crown,— 
 No more new scions of his race to rear, 
 Amid that outstretched sylvan theatre — 
 It blooms a garden, and it charms the eye 
 With its sweet infinite variety. 
 
O BARBADOES. 
 
 The chattering monkey is no longer seen 
 To play his pranks amid the leafy green ; 
 Man drove him first from his ancestral wood, 
 Then, cruel tyrant ! thirsted for his blood. 
 No more his active form is seen to bound 
 From tree to tree, or light upon the ground ; 
 No more he pelts with nuts his hated foe, 
 Or scolds at him that stands and laughs below — 
 The cunning miniature of man is gone, 
 Slain in the empire which was once his own ! 
 
 No longer from the green-veiled branch is heard 
 The Mathews of the woods — the mocking-bird. 
 No more the tall flamingo shews his crest, 
 In royal state, in brightest scarlet drest ; 
 Nor keeps his court of red-plumed beauties here, 
 With swan-like grace, and with a princely air. 
 
 The proud macaw, and bright-green paroquet, 
 Are captives wing-clipt, or in cages set ; 
 Where once they had free liberty to roam, ' 
 To choose their mates, and build their leafy home. 
 
 But still the redbreast builds and twitters here ; 
 The little wren, to social bosoms dear ; 
 While, mid the murmurs of the breezy grove, 
 Is heard the cooing of the turtle-dove. 
 
BARBADOES. / 
 
 Still sparkles here the glory of the west, 
 
 Shews his crowned head, and bares his jewelled breast, 
 
 In whose bright plumes the richest colours live, 
 
 Whose dazzling hues no mimic art can give — 
 
 The purple amethyst, the emerald's green, 
 
 Contrasted, mingle with the ruby's sheen ; 
 
 While over all a tissue is put on 
 
 Of golden gauze, by fairy fingers spun — 
 
 Small as a beetle, as an eagle brave, 
 
 In purest ether he delights to lave ; 
 
 The sweetest flowers alone descends to woo, 
 
 Rifles their sweets, and lives on honey-dew — 
 
 So light his kisses, not a leaf is stirred 
 
 By the bold, happy, amorous humming-bird ; 
 
 No disarray, no petal rudely moved, 
 
 Betrays the flower the collobree has loved. 
 
 There now, his careless victim to surprise, 
 No beast of prey in secret ambush lies ; 
 No venomous reptile hides and hisses there ; 
 No troop of vultures darkening clouds the air. 
 
 The nut-brown warrior long has left the scene, 
 And dim the traces where his step has been ; 
 Hunted from every spot he called his own, 
 The Charib perished, and his race is gone. 
 The latest lingered in some mountain- wild, 
 Rejoiced to think he left behind no child — 
 
BARBADOES. 
 
 Lingered till death, a welcome visitant, 
 
 Found the fierce savage in his pathless haunt ; 
 
 While through the woods his vengeful curses rung, 
 
 And o'er his race his dying dirge he sung ; 
 
 " Of all my days the dearest is the last, 
 
 That brings oblivion of the fearful past ; 
 
 That sets the eagle of his people free, 
 
 And ends the warriors of the isles in me. 
 
 No more our war-shouts on the shores shall ring ; 
 
 No more our maids the song of triumph sing. 
 
 Long since of country and of home bereft, 
 
 My tribe has perished, and but one is left ; 
 
 Some fell in battle, some, the stranger's prey, 
 
 In cursed slavery toiled and pined away. 
 
 My only hope, my last surviving boy, 
 
 His mother's darling, and his father's joy, 
 
 By his own hand, upon his mother's grave, 
 
 As sunk the sun found freedom for the slave. 
 
 Man-child nor woman on the earth remains 
 
 That has the Charib's red blood in his veins ; 
 
 And I, the last, now see my latest sun — 
 
 Our name has perished, and our race is run ! 
 
 But vengeance light upon the tyrant-train, 
 
 That came with withering curses o'er the main ; 
 
 With fire's red arrows by the demon armed, 
 
 Our startled waters and our woods alarmed ; 
 
 As, while their fiery deaths unerring fell, 
 
 Rose woman's shriek, and manhood's dying yell ; — 
 
BARBADOES. 
 
 Who snared our warriors, and refused to kill, 
 But tried to tame them to a master's will ! 
 With power to slay, but impotent to save, 
 No white man now can boast an Indian slave ! 
 Perish the white-face ! let the slayer steal 
 On his night-slumber ; let the cruel feel, 
 When first he clasps his fond and cherished bride, 
 Life's warm blood welling from his wounded side ! 
 Plagues track his human cargoes o'er the sea ; 
 And let him know the wrongs he heaped on me ! 
 Fire in his bosom, madness in his brain, 
 His women outraged, and his children slain ! 
 On the whole race let my last curses fall ; 
 In slow, consuming tortures perish all ! 
 No ! let one live, upon this mountain-brow, 
 To curse their slayers — as I curse them now ; 
 And when he falls upon his dying side, 
 In death remember how the Charib died I" 
 
 From his wide bed of molten gold the sun 
 Rises majestical ; and looks upon 
 The vales and headlands of the verdant isle, 
 Making all joyous with his radiant smile — 
 Ten thousand gems each sparkling blade adorn, 
 And all the earth-born wear the dress of morn — 
 The flowers and fruits in his effulgence blaze ; 
 The vocal birds take up the song of praise ; 
 
10 BARBADOES. 
 
 The conch or shrill-toned bell, throughout the land, 
 Proclaims his advent ; at the loud command, 
 From their embowered huts come forth in throngs 
 The sable race, and wake their joyful songs : 
 They come to labour, but they come with joy, 
 While themes of happiness their minds employ. 
 With Mammon's worship they affright not sleep, 
 Nor vain ambition's painful vigils keep ; 
 Their eyelids droop not with dark-thoughted care ; 
 Their labouring future teems not with despair. 
 In health they breathe the freshness of the sky, 
 Buoyant with nature's prodigality ; 
 And when disease weighs down the sickening frame, 
 In faith they utter their Redeemer's name ; — 
 Taught how to live, instructed how to die, 
 They eount their blessings, while the seasons fly. 
 
 All to their different tasks with speed repair, 
 Where guides their steps the planter's ruling care. 
 Each trim plantation like a garden shines — 
 Here waves the cane, there creep the nurturing vines, 
 Which hide their treasure in the fruitful ground ; 
 Here spreads the plantain's ordered range around ; 
 Here, brightening to the riant glance of morn, 
 Stand the wide fields of Guinea's bearded corn, 
 Whence troops of blackbirds rise upon the wing, 
 Scared by the shout, or pelted by the sling. 
 
BARBADOES. 11 
 
 There stands the sheep-cote; here the tedded kine, 
 Impatient for the field, their young resign ; 
 While the stout steers await the cow-boy's call,— 
 Their daily task, the yoke's ungentle thrall. 
 
 See the bright verdure of those evergreens, 
 The rustling bamboo, and the pimploe-screens ! 
 Where on the hill-side, on its sandy bed 
 The delicate of fruits is cherished, 
 The mailed anana ! see the tempting tree, 
 For whose sweet fruit man lost his liberty ; 
 The oil-distilling palm, whose nuts of yore 
 Round their dark necks the Libyan beauties wore ; 
 The useful calabash, whose shell affords 
 Lavers and goblets for the village boards ; 
 The noble bread-fruit ; and, the orchard's grace, 
 Star-apples, with their leaves of double face ; 
 The guava, hardiest native of the clime, 
 Whose jelly, mixed with juices of the lime 
 Or fragrant lemon, and the crystal sweet 
 Won from the cane-reed by refining heat, 
 And that pure spirit, which the seaman loves, 
 For wearied man a new nepenthe proves ; 
 Steeped with the luscious nectar, he forgets 
 Arrears of anger, griefs, and fond regrets, 
 Lives for the present, hails the passing hour, 
 And feels beyond the reach of fortune's power. 
 
12 BARBADOES. 
 
 Here bends the citron with its fragrant gold ; 
 And here their sweets the orange-buds unfold. 
 See the rare date ! whose branches, dropt with gold, 
 And drest with flowers the sons of Israel hold 
 In solemn pomp proceeding, when comes round 
 The feast of Tabernacles : here are found 
 Red-flowered pomegranates, boast of Palestine ; 
 The native mangrove, and imported vine ; 
 Bananas, whose broad leaf the mitred head 
 Of high Osiris shaded, for whom dead 
 Old Nile went wailing, and his Isis wept ? 
 While on her knee the infant Orus slept — 
 For whose womb-quickening fruit sad Rachel strove, 
 To keep with love-links Jacob's cherished love. 
 Mysterious plant ! whose leaf the nakedness 
 Of Adam covered in his shame's distress ; 
 And on whose fruit deep-charactered we see 
 The second Adam on the cursed tree. 
 
 Here, towering in its pride, the May-pole glows, 
 Whose pointed top a bee-swarmed circlet shews 
 Of waving yellow ; whose high-branched stem 
 Takes back the rapt thought to Jerusalem, 
 Shewing the candlestick, that stood of old 
 In the first temple, chased in purest gold. 
 Glorious mid these some patriarchal tree, 
 Ceiba or bearded fig, in sovereignty 
 
BARBADOES. 13 
 
 Yet stands, with gnarled trunk and crown of green, 
 The aged monarch of the sylvan scene. 
 
 Lo ! where the gang assembled wields the hoe, 
 And each begins his own appointed row ; 
 Song and the jocund laugh are heard around — 
 Quirk upon quirk, and ready jokes abound. 
 The task allotted they with ease can do ; 
 No shapes of dread affright their steps pursue : 
 They fear no lash, nor, worse ! the dungeon's gloom, 
 Nor nurse the sorrows of a hopeless doom. 
 The gay troop laughs and revels in the sun, 
 With mirth unwearied — till their work is done. 
 
 But on one well-remembered morn, there rose 
 Or seemed to rise, no sun. No stars disclose, 
 Nor straggling moonlight, the uncertain hour, 
 But darkness reigns with undisputed power. 
 Horror on horror! onward rolls the day, 
 And yet there comes no solitary ray : 
 The birds fly screaming round the night- wrapt walls ; 
 The obscene bat is wheeling through the halls ; 
 The affrighted herds in wild confusion run — 
 All that has life bewails the veiled sun. 
 The trembling negroes in their huts crouch low, 
 And fear some terrible though unseen foe ; 
 The boldest and the wisest shrink aghast ; 
 No thunder-voice is heard, no rushing blast : 
 
14 BARBADOES. 
 
 A frightful stillness fills the invisible ; 
 In vain they listen — all is silence still ! 
 But some remember in the by-gone day, 
 While in the wave the red sun sunk away, 
 Loud peals and flashes, — as upon the sea 
 Rude War was voicing his artillery ! 
 Now from the heavens a strange portentous shower 
 Is felt descending, as some unseen power, — - 
 Like Him of old, who scattered down the rain 
 Of lightning on the Cities of the Plain, — 
 Commissioned by the Sire, had sallied forth 
 To weigh in darkness down the staggering earth. 
 
 The helpless fall upon the ground and pray, — 
 " If we must perish, let it be in day !" 
 Affrighted crowds the distant churches throng ; 
 At mid-day torches gleam the roads along : 
 Terrors, unmasked, upon the impious seize — 
 Who never prayed before, are on their knees ; 
 The unconscious infant, on its mother's breast, 
 Plays with her neck, and smiles itself to rest ; 
 The weeping children tear and toss away 
 The yester-flowers they culled to dress their May ; 
 The senseless idiot stunned and silent lies ; 
 The household hound with mournful wailing cries ; 
 The frantic madman pauses in his rage ; 
 Youth's raven locks are silvered o'er with age— 
 
BARBADOES. 15 
 
 A few brief hours an untold sum comprise 
 Of speechless woes, and blighting agonies. 
 
 There in the dust low grovelling is laid 
 The base betrayer of an artless maid : 
 Terror and madness cloud his aching brain ; 
 That trembling wretch will never smile again. 
 Conscience hath done the work of death and doom ; 
 For him will never pass this hideous gloom. 
 All, all are self-convicted ; while the night 
 Unnatural breeds her spectres of affright. 
 
 But, lo ! a single point — a sudden ray 
 Of living light, and now the golden day ! 
 The fierce volcano of a neighbouring isle, 
 Where Nature's chemic cauldrons ever boil, 
 Had burst its barriers, and o'er land and sea 
 Poured its dark flood, — a blessing meant for thee, 
 Affrighted island ! to the healed in heart, 
 From whom fierce Legion is constrained to part, 
 A good transcending price ; while to thy fields 
 Healing no less, and vigorous health it yields ; 
 Mixed with the dust, thy wearied soil regains 
 Its ancient worth, and vies with Memphian plains. 
 
 Pleasant the morning, when the dew is on 
 The blade, that gem-like glisters in the sun ; 
 
16 BARBADOES. 
 
 When through the air the glad birds twittering fly, 
 Their plumes far-flashing in the calm clear sky ; 
 And, by the sun-god wakened, every flower 
 Opens her bosom to her paramour. 
 
 In that fair island, pleasant then to be 
 On the cool margin of the bright blue sea ; 
 Where, in the shelter of the modest bay, 
 Health and her handmaids sport the hour away ; 
 Quicksands nor cramps the cheerful bathers fear : 
 The air is balmy and the lymph is clear. 
 Then the blvthe fisher trims his little boat ; 
 The coasting barks upon the azure float ; 
 And while the sea-breeze whispers through the cave 
 England's sea-towers sit, sleep-like, on the wave. 
 
 There the nut-bearing palm, of palms the best, 
 Spreads its dear shade, and bids the weary rest ; 
 And gives at once, upon the ocean's brink, 
 Food to the hungry, to the thirsty drink. 
 
 Hail, universal Father! whose free hand 
 Gives some peculiar boon to every land ; 
 At whose command the overflowing Nile 
 Makes, with the year, rain-wanting Egypt smile ; 
 While on the fields of sacred Palestine, 
 Land of the rose, the lily, and the vine, 
 
BARBADOES. 17 
 
 On hill, and valley, and extended plain, 
 Descends the atter and the former rain ; 
 On these rich isles thy love bestowed this tree, 
 For wearied man, drink, food, and shade to be. 
 Like modest worth, it stoops and bends aside, 
 But teems with wealth to loftier palms denied. 
 How graceful shews the bay that keeps, Carlisle ! 
 Thy name an honour to the loyal isle ; 
 Fringed with the cocoa-nuts, that bending reach 
 Their waving branches downward to the beach ! 
 
 Beware thee, stranger ! lest soft slumber steal 
 Upon thine eyes beneath the manchineel. 
 Fair as the apple which in Eden grew, 
 Of fragrant odour, and delightful hue ; 
 A milky poison circles through its veins — 
 Its tempting fruit a torturing death contains. 
 
 Along that shore, with crimson juices rich, 
 The murex loiters in his favourite niche ; 
 The pungent odour of his scarlet dye 
 Makes the devouring foe in horror fly. 
 And safe, perchance, from man he still had lived, 
 Till his appointed term of days arrived, 
 Had not young Tyros bartered, for his blood, 
 The treasure of her rosy womanhood. 
 
 c 
 
18 BARBADOES. 
 
 It chanced, where sea-washed Tyre in glory rose, 
 Alcmena's son had sought a brief repose ; 
 But won by beauty, he by Tyros' side 
 Bent down his head, and bowed his heart of pride. 
 Proud of her conquest, she, as woman will, 
 Hunted her captive with the angler's skill ; 
 With frowns she vexed him — or she charmed with 
 
 smiles, — 
 For Venus taught her favourite all her wiles. 
 The hero kneeled submissive to the maid ; 
 But still in vain the love-sick suppliant prayed. 
 On what slight threads do mightiest fates depend ! 
 Her whom no prayers could to his wishes bend, 
 Who still would smile, yet still his suit delay, 
 A hue could vanquish and a colour sway ! 
 Her faithful dog, a four-foot epicure, 
 Content not with his food had searched for more ; 
 He saw and killed the murex on the beach, 
 And taught, by chance, a dye no art could teach — 
 For as his lips pressed Tyros' rosy hand, 
 Her thin-spun robe, and bosom's envious band, 
 Her rosy hand yet rosier to the view, 
 Crimson her robe, and red her girdle grew. 
 Pleased with the glowing colour, she assigned 
 This love-task to the man of patient mind — 
 " Bring me a robe with this rich tincture dyed, 
 And then, perhaps, thou wilt not be denied." 
 
BARBADOES. 19 
 
 To win his love, or find a toothsome dish, 
 
 He sought and found the rock-hid crimson-fish ; 
 
 Won his vain love, and then forgot to sigh, 
 
 And left to future times the crimson dye. 
 
 The grateful Tyrians, of the dye possessed, 
 
 A dog and murex on their coins impressed. 
 
 Thrice happy fish ! while others meet the flames, 
 
 His heart-blood flows to grace the long-robed dames ; 
 
 While with his shell the loud-voiced herald goes 
 
 To challenge kings, or rabble-brawls compose. 
 
 There conchs are found — the negroes' sounding horn, 
 That wakes them from their dreams at dewy morn ; 
 That loves to lie deep-buried in the sand, 
 Or courts the diver further from the land. 
 And there the broad-lipt ; there the helmet-shell ; 
 The graceful conch, by Venus marked so well, 
 That bears her impress and that takes her name, 
 Unconscious of its beauty and its shame ; 
 And here the music-shell unboastful shines, 
 Its polished mantle scored with well-drawn lines ; 
 Here Amnion's horn ; the armed urchin there, 
 That bristles, as he moves, with many a spear ; 
 And there the beautiful sea- feathers grow, 
 Spread out their looms, and all their net-work shew ; 
 The sea-rods glitter in the bright clear brine, 
 White-crusted spires, and pillars coralline. 
 
20 BARBADOES. 
 
 Here brilliant shells, of every shape and hue, 
 At morn and eve, the dark-eyed nymphs pursue ; 
 Skilled to arrange them with an artist's eye, 
 To rival Baptist's flowers and Titian's dye ; 
 While from their artful fingers duly rise 
 Paintings, and gems, and rich embroideries. 
 
 Where the dread spout its watery volume sends 
 Through its long tubes, while overhead impends 
 The beetling cliff, within her marine bower, 
 In beauty blooms the saffron-veiled flower — 
 Flower but in seeming ! which doth artful spread 
 Her petal arms around her rocky bed ; 
 And shews a floweret to the eye of day, 
 To court her victims and attract her prey. 
 Steep the descent of that capacious cave, 
 Where roars the surge, and booms the rushing wave ; 
 Dripping with brine, with tangled weeds o'ergrown, 
 Danger lies careless on the ledge of stone. 
 The falling wretch a dreadful doom awaits,— 
 The Stygian whirlpool, and hell's hideous gates ! 
 
 But when the terrors of the steep are past, 
 And we have reached the fear-girt goal at last, 
 A vasty cavern rears its pillared pride, 
 And limpid water trickles down the side ; 
 While drops of freshness from the jaggy crown 
 Of that high hollow dome come pattering down. 
 
BARBADOES. 21 
 
 Within this cavern is another cave, 
 
 Where sylphs might slumber, or Diana lave — 
 
 A natural bath in sacred silence lies, 
 
 A fitting scene for Naiad mysteries ; 
 
 Beneath whose bosom, in her secret cell, 
 
 The shrinking flower of sense delights to dwell. 
 
 Admire her beauty and her sparkling hue, 
 
 But think not, stranger ! of a nearer view ; 
 
 Let but the hand or slightest wand appear, 
 
 The flower is gone ! But when the lymph is clear 
 
 Of danger threatened by the ambushed foe, 
 
 Again she shews her bosom from below ; 
 
 Pleased her loved haunt, her station to resume, 
 
 To spread her glories and display her bloom. 
 
 O beauty ! dangerous gift and dangerous snare 
 
 To all that dwell in water or the air. 
 
 That lovely bosom is a tempting bait — 
 
 The tiny sea-born find its clasp is fate : 
 
 The yellow border closes on the prey, 
 
 And then again appears in beauty gay — 
 
 As though no life had fluttered in its fold, 
 
 Nor death lay hid within the marigold. 
 
 But when the Titan leaves his watery bed, 
 Not only then old ocean far outspread — 
 The shores and bays of this delicious isle — 
 Attract the step, and win the grateful smile : 
 
22 BARBADOES. 
 
 All lovely is the blossom-cinctured earth, 
 All lovely is her many-coloured birth. 
 Here we behold fair Devon's swelling hills — 
 The vale of Cashmere and Thessalian rills ; 
 The marks of man's assiduous labour here ; 
 There rocks precipitous, and bleak, and bare. 
 
 Such are the scenes that bid th' enthusiast wake, 
 And his rapt glance at all their glories take, 
 Before the sun mounts far up in the sky, 
 Wearies the sight, and dims the gazing eye. 
 While every scene brings back the past to life, 
 The bower of love, the field of mortal strife ; 
 The thoughtful dreamer lives the days of yore, 
 Enjoys their loves, and fights their battles o'er ; 
 Back to the hoar of Time his fancy springs, 
 And as the local genius lends him wings, 
 He sees the island overgrown with wood — 
 The haunt of birds — a human solitude ; 
 The bearded shelter of the banyan tree, 
 The king-bird's court — a royal liberty; 
 Or won by names, he visits every place 
 That keeps the foot-prints of the Indian race ; 
 At Indian river sees the Indian train, 
 In light canoes come dancing o'er the main ; 
 At Indian castle marks the cavern-home, 
 Fitted by Nature for her sons that roam ; 
 
BARBADOES. 23 
 
 And when the hapless race is dead and gone, 
 He re-erects their feeble gods of stone ; 
 Shrinks from the sounds that vex the modest air, 
 And for their welfare breathes a silent prayer. 
 
 Near yonder copse, in olden days, a wood, 
 In its embrowned primeval horror, stood ; 
 Within it was a sheltered, heaven- fed pool, 
 Untroubled, limpid, shade-embowered, and cool. 
 There came the hapless gentle Yarico, 
 In Nature's travail, vexed with many a wo — 
 Thither she fled from man's unpitying gaze, 
 And bore the pang of her accomplished days. 
 Alone, unaided, in the friendly wild, 
 The new-made mother on her infant smiled ; 
 And while she gently clasped him to her breast, 
 Thus to his listless ear her hopes addressed : 
 " Fed from my breast, my hope, my only joy ! 
 Thou wilt not trample me, desert, destroy. 
 Thy faithless father brought me o'er the wave, 
 And sold his fond preserver as a slave ; 
 But thou, my boy ! art all the world to me — 
 Parents and brethren, home and liberty. 
 Yes ! thou shalt bid thy mother not to mourn, 
 Kiss off my tears, and all my love return ; 
 While I to thee the fondest care will give — 
 Content for thee to suffer and to live." 
 
24 BARBADOES. 
 
 In a deep bay of the Colombian shore, 
 Where mighty streams their torrent waters pour, 
 Where yet the fire-tube's volley was unfelt, 
 An Indian tribe in fearless freedom dwelt. 
 Their well-spun hammocks from the trees they slung, 
 While overhead innumerous songsters sung : 
 They feared not danger, and they knew not care — 
 Alas ! the dark-souled pale-face found them there ! 
 On the dark wave a gallant ship was seen — 
 Its band of robbers sought their home of green. 
 Not all escaped the suffering Indian's wrath ; 
 Some fell beleagured in the tangled path ; 
 Some bit the dust, and others fled away, 
 But one was left to curse his natal day. 
 
 Threatened with famine, or the vengeful foe, 
 The lingering torture, or the sudden blow — 
 Starting at every sound and passing shade, 
 Him, coward hind ! surprised an Indian maid — 
 A bright-limbed Hebe of the ancient wood, 
 A shape to love in holy solitude ; 
 Whose eyes, quick-rolling, seemed to dance in dew ; 
 Whose laugh was music, and whose footstep flew : 
 A brighter Venus of a darker hue 
 Than sculptor e'er designed, or painter drew. 
 Her rounded arms — her bosom's graceful swell — 
 Her twinkling ankles, with their wreaths of shell — 
 
BARBADOES. 25 
 
 Her limbs' proportion, and their wavy line, 
 Instinct with beauty, breathing and divine — 
 Her glorious form, complete in every part, 
 Shewed Nature's triumph over colder art. 
 
 The gentle creature to the white man came ; 
 She saw and loved him, and she felt no shame. 
 She loved the stranger, cherished him and saved — 
 For him her father's dreaded frown she braved ; 
 For him she left her careful mother's side ; 
 For him the dangers of the deep she tried. 
 She knew not what his moving lips might say — 
 His earnest gesture beckoned her away : 
 She read his love-suit in his pleading eye ; 
 Her bosom heaved in answer to his sigh — 
 She shrunk not from his arms, his bosom, side — 
 The Indian Dryad was the white man's bride. 
 Him whom she fed by day and watched by night, 
 Could she refuse, fond girl ! to share his flight ? 
 'Tis true she would not hear her sister's voice, 
 Whose soft low accents made her soul rejoice ; 
 Her infant brother needs must miss her arm ; 
 Her father's hut would lose its dearest charm : 
 But she had found a treasure in the wood — 
 Her own white man was gentle, kind, and good. 
 Though, as they left the shore, her eyes were dim, 
 How could she fear to trust herself to him ? 
 
26 BARBADOES. 
 
 To leave her kindred grieved her gentle heart, 
 But from her lover it were death to part — 
 He was her all, and in his loving days, 
 The child of Nature imaged thus his praise : 
 " All persons, things, that ever pleasured me, 
 All met in one, methinks I find in thee — 
 The swift canoe in which 1 urged my way ; 
 The bird that waked me up to joy and day ; 
 The tree that gave me shelter in the night ; 
 My mother's smile, so pleasant to my sight ; 
 The dance by moonlight, when the day was done ; 
 After long rains, the bright and gladsome sun." 
 
 To this fair island came they : then she found 
 The white man's honour was an empty sound ; 
 The white man's plighted faith a scornful lie, 
 His love a dream, his oath a perjury. 
 For him the Indian would have gladly died, 
 And to the winged death opposed her side — 
 Deceit, and broken vows, and chains repaid 
 The fond devotion of the Indian maid — 
 He left her there to sicken or to die ; 
 And for her love she lost her liberty. 
 
 Accursed slavery ! dire thirst of gold, 
 That makes the tender heart obdure and cold ; 
 At whose chill touch ethereal Mercy flies, 
 And shrieks, and groans, and curses fret the skies : 
 
BARBADOES. 27 
 
 At whose fierce bidding comes the armed band, 
 And tears the peasant from his native land ; 
 Steals on the village in the hour of sleep, 
 And leaves the absent — to return and weep. 
 Curst avarice ! that makes and mocks distress ; 
 For gold puts out the light of happiness ; 
 That forges tortures for its human kind, 
 Chains for the body, fetters for the mind ; 
 Till this fair earth Creating Power did bless 
 Becomes a park for mortal wretchedness ! 
 
 See the poor wretch that every hope resigns, 
 Compelled by force to toil in Idria's mines ! 
 Dejected, corpse-like, spiritless, and wan, 
 He digs the treasure, and — his life is gone ! 
 Who heeds the poisoned victim's dying cries ? 
 Another takes his place, and droops, and dies ! 
 What are the lives of thousands such as they, 
 So that earth's costly poison comes to day ? 
 
 Who are those wretches of the lead-like hue, 
 That seem some plague-ship's horror-haunted crew— 
 Those nerveless children, wo-begone, and pale, 
 Whose limbs seem wire-hung, and whose sinews fail ? 
 Our England claims those wretches for her own — 
 Her boast is waste of life in towns overgrown ; 
 The happier negro claims her fostering care, 
 While her own children vent their loud despair ; 
 
28 BARBADOES. 
 
 And misery haunts the cities of the plain, 
 And saints and sinners urge the toil of gain. 
 
 Maligned Las Casas ! thine was not the crime 
 That tore the negro from his native clime. 
 The horrid trade from love of gold began — 
 Thou wert the Indian's friend, and friend of man ! 
 The dying captives, heaped upon the sea, 
 Their curse to nations left, but not to thee. 
 Friend of the lowly, patron of the weak ! 
 Thy gentle voice was raised — thy accents meek — 
 The Indian race to rescue and to save ; 
 Thy heart confessed a brother in the slave, 
 Mourned for his anguish, sorrowed for his pain, — 
 Son of the Cross ! thou didst not live in vain. 
 Millions of nutbrown Indians yet survive, 
 To bless the father by whose care they live ; 
 The mother to her child shall teach thy name, 
 And hill and valley keep thy stainless fame. 
 
 The English serf, allured by hope of gain, 
 Here toiled and found his golden hopes were vain ; 
 Then, dying, homeward turned his failing eye, 
 And murmured " England ! " with his latest sigh. 
 Unused to slavery, and unapt for toil, 
 The Indian savage tilled the virgin soil ; 
 But in his fetters still for freedom sighed, 
 And lived unwilling, and rejoicing died. 
 
BARBADOES. 29 
 
 Long since the Indian slave and English serf 
 Slept their last sleep beneath the verdant turf ; 
 Then Libya's sons supplied their vacant place, 
 Bound by the curse entailed upon their race. 
 
 From Congo's swamps, and wide-extended plains — 
 From Coromantee, where the demon reigns, 
 Who speaks in thunder and who shakes the sky, 
 And scares the nations with his evil eye — 
 From Whiddaw, and Angola, and the coast 
 Whose streams and barren sands the gold-dust boast — 
 From Ebo, and Mondingo, and the plain 
 Of Minnah, came the captived negro-train : 
 They changed their country, but their life the same — 
 In wide-spread Libya freedom is a name. 
 
 Yet mourned they long their own dear village-tree, 
 Their loved and pleasant home of infancy ; 
 The orphaned cradle, and the widowed bed ; 
 The sacred ground that kept their happy dead : 
 And oft, their exile and their grief to end, 
 They, wilful, sought in death a guide and friend ; 
 Through the free ether to o'erleap the main, 
 And see their rice-fields and their loved again. 
 
 But, now the race has vanished from the land, 
 Whose hopes lie buried in far Guinea's sand ; 
 
30 
 
 BARBADOES. 
 
 Now that a brighter faith their children warms, 
 And hope delights them in a thousand forms ; 
 Now that brute force and cruelty are gone, 
 Their hearths are sacred and their store their own ; 
 Now that the brand, the torture, and the chain, 
 The sharp wild shriek of agonizing pain, 
 The sobbing accents that in vain implore, 
 And slavery's blotch, are seen and heard no more — 
 Change but the name — hunt freedom o'er the waves, 
 Search through the earth for happier than the slaves ;- 
 Vain is the search ! and when their minds shall be 
 Free as their persons, will the slaves be free. 
 
 Pause, painted Britons ! ere ye take away, 
 By rash injustice, freedom's future day. 
 Ye, after fifteen ages — scarcely then — 
 Began to walk in open day as men ; 
 Forgot your manacles, and girths, and bands, 
 And then forged fetters for earth's new-found lands. 
 
 Pause, free-born English ! by gradations slow, 
 Freedom, like nations, must have time to grow. 
 The cry of Africa has reached the skies ; 
 A load of guilt on England's bosom lies. 
 Think not decrees the damned dye will drench, 
 Think not to move the load by sudden wrench ; 
 Shut not the door upon the feeble child ; 
 Thrust not the helpless on the howling wild. 
 
BARBADOES. 31 
 
 O, let not loose rebellion's fiery rage ! 
 
 Spare woman's sanctity ; spare feeble age ! 
 
 Break not in battle-broils the sacred rood ! 
 
 Quench not the light of holy faith in blood ! 
 
 The parent bird long tends upon her young, 
 
 Till all their plumes are grown, their pinions strung ; 
 
 In their first flight she hovers ever nigh, 
 
 Cheers their faint hearts, instructs them how to fly ; 
 
 Till fully fledged, they need no more her care, 
 
 But spread their wings — free denizens of air. 
 
 So let your slaves, step after step, grow free, 
 
 That they mature may keep their liberty ; 
 
 Lest heavier fetters and a darker fate 
 
 The dear-bought children of your guilt await. 
 
 Bright, Consett's ! is thy beach at early morn, 
 And beautiful thy long projecting horn ; 
 Where shaggy rocks shut in the peaceful bay, 
 While o'er them leap the waters far away : 
 And beautiful the slope — the rising hill ; 
 The dell, the valley, and the tinkling rill. 
 Fair as young Hope, and bright the lovely view, 
 Crowned with its long and pillared avenue ; 
 Whose mountain-palms point tapering to the sky, 
 While the glad rivulet brawls and babbles by ; 
 Whose bosom here, with its delicious cool, 
 Invites the bather of the stately school ; 
 
32 BARBADOES. 
 
 And there kind offers to the weaklier form 
 A gushing stream medicinal and warm. 
 
 The merit Codrington's, and his the praise, 
 To love the living, toil for future days; 
 Who thought in active health, in wearying pain, 
 Of far Barbadoes on the western main ; 
 With anxious care this noble structure laid, 
 And reared an Academus in the shade, 
 Where Socrates might love to sit and talk, 
 And heaven-taught Plato with his pupils walk. 
 Let Oxford still his filial care attest, 
 But we, the favoured most, must love him best. 
 
 Thou, who hast eye for nature, and a heart 
 Steeped in her beauty, needing not the art 
 Of mimic painting to inform the sense, 
 View the sublime, the beautiful from hence. 
 Impending rocks that frown in barren wo ; 
 The deep-brown foliage of the trees below ; 
 The rifts and deep ravines ; the blocks of stone, 
 That lie in heaps, as if by giants thrown 
 In sport or battle ; rock-hewn, gaping tombs — 
 A nation's rest, — the Indian catacombs ! 
 The river, gently flowing in its tract, 
 Or, rain-fed, swollen to a cataract; 
 The dread abyss, that opens at the feet, 
 Where hostile waves in fearful battle meet. 
 
BARBADOES. 33 
 
 Dash in the chasm, from the rocks rebound, 
 In foam and fury, with a deafening sound ; 
 While far beyond is seen the tranquil sea, 
 Calm as the smile of sleeping infancy. 
 
 Turn round, and gaze upon a peaceful scene, 
 On clumps of verdure, and on fields of green ; 
 The toil of oxen, and the work of swains ; 
 Mills, buildings, dotted o'er the fertile plains. 
 There frowning rocks, here verdant vales appear ; 
 There horrid (Eta, smiling Tempe here ! 
 At once the images of horror flee — 
 The laboured breathing of the chest is free. 
 Snatched from the chained Titan's ocean-keep, — 
 Sea- fretted, wind-swept, solitary steep ! 
 From Hackleton's tall cliff we look upon 
 The spacious vale of thymy Esdraelon. 
 
 Romantic Scotland ! worthy of the name, 
 Which as their father-land thy settlers claim ; 
 Lovely, and grand, and beautiful, and rude, 
 In thee old Albyn's features are renewed. 
 We have the hill, the valley, and the flood ; 
 The tangled dell — we had the giant wood ; 
 The lake is wanting, and the mountain-pride, 
 On which the rampant clouds careering ride ; 
 The mist, that sudden spreads its awful pall ; 
 The dreadful burn ; the roaring water- fall ; 
 
 D 
 
34 BARBADOES. 
 
 And worse ! no seer has on the hill- side slept ; 
 No kindling bard his highland harp has swept ; 
 No dusky spirits hear our vain command ; 
 We have no visions of the fairy land. 
 Beauty in vain has cast her magic spell — 
 We have no shepherd-flute, no minstrel-shell ; 
 And he that now first sweeps his island lyre, 
 Whom all his country's charities inspire, 
 In vain may waken its neglected tone, 
 May live unhonoured, and may die unknown ! 
 
 Who that has looked from Dotten's tufted hill, 
 From Batten's height, or from Grenada's Mill, 
 O'er the long lights and shades that come between, 
 Nor felt the glories of the lovely scene ? 
 
 Now look from woody Black-rock ; down, far down, 
 Behold the distant sea and quiet town ; 
 See the proud ships at anchor in the bay, 
 The white shore glittering in the golden day. 
 The rising trade- wind just begins to fan 
 The flag that hangs upon thy brow, St. Anne ! 
 Floating in air around the crested rock, 
 Comes the faint sound of the cathedral-clock ; 
 A heavenly calmness o'er the land is spread ; 
 Blest seems each home, in green embosomed. 
 Fair are the villas, trim the gardens round, 
 Where oft in covert are the Graces found ; 
 
BARBADOES. 35 
 
 Where bright-limbed Beauty loiters oft and strays, 
 And Love, insidious, many an ambush lays. 
 
 That tasteful mansion, which, like some young bride, 
 In a close veil its graceful head doth hide, 
 Mixed with its orange groves and flowering limes, 
 Can boast the shrubs and fruits of wintry climes. 
 There oft have gathered, at its master's call, 
 Love's dark-eyed daughters to the merry ball ; 
 There oft have met the magnates of the land, 
 And welcome guests from many a foreign strand. 
 
 There came Maria, in her dawn of life, 
 A blushing bride and fond devoted wife ; 
 There bloomed in beauty, in her modest bower, 
 Of all its flowers herself the sweetest flower. 
 There on her features, ever mild and meek, 
 Sat throned joy ; and her pomegranate cheek — 
 Her timid fondness half represt by fear — 
 Blushed into gladness as his step drew near. 
 Not long Hope's siren strain her heart beguiled ; 
 She had not honour, for she had no child. 
 Blest links ! that closer draw the nuptial chain — 
 She wished for children, but she wished in vain. 
 Soon her proud lord grew sated of her charms, 
 And left for lights of love her loving arms. 
 One friend, one young companion, yet a child, 
 Shared her lone bed, her widowed hours beguiled : 
 
36 BARBADOES. 
 
 With her she loved to tend her garden flowers ; 
 With her she read, when fell the pattering showers. 
 Wise in her counsels, in her precepts kind, 
 To virtuous aims she led her ductile mind. 
 That child became a woman passing fair, 
 That woman fluttered in seduction's snare ; 
 Th' insulter was her husband, and her bower 
 The love-haunt of his wanton paramour. 
 Her own chaste eyes surprised them ; not a word 
 Passed her pale lips — her bosom scarcely stirred. 
 She stood, as if she were congealed to stone — 
 She gazed, still gazed — the guilty pair are gone — 
 But still she stood with open staring eye — 
 Still gazed intent and mute on vacancy. 
 
 There in the grounds of her own loved abode, 
 In that low, wood-built cottage by the road, 
 The maniac rends with shrieks the vexed sky ; 
 Or in a fitful mood sits silently. 
 There scarcely tended, scarce with food supplied, 
 Music, observance, watchful care denied, 
 The widow missed not the assiduous aid 
 The guilty husband to his victim paid ; 
 She saw him not upon his stately bier — 
 Upon his cold remains she shed no tear. 
 Torn from her chamber, from her husband's hall, 
 Maria rages in that boarded stall ! 
 
BARBADOES. 37 
 
 Unhappy one ! the negro who goes by 
 
 Shakes his crisped head, and gently heaves a sigh ; 
 
 The stranger wonders at the open shame, 
 
 And stops to ask the screaming maniac's name. 
 
 Gay sounds are heard within the lighted halls ; 
 The listening leaves the melody enthrals ; 
 The charmed zephyr pauses as he flies, 
 And mingles with the strain his softest sighs ; 
 The wakened lizard leaves his bushy bed, 
 Climbs to the lattice, and erects his head. 
 Carriage on carriage passes by her door — 
 She starts ; she shrieks, and falls upon the floor. 
 Inexplicable threads that twine the brain, 
 And bring the long since past to life again ! 
 A chord was struck, and answered ; light was there — 
 Such festive lights, such music in the air, 
 When first by her beloved husband's side, 
 She passed that lodge a blushing, blooming bride. 
 Beloved still ! her mind his image woke, 
 And long-lost reason, taught by nature, spoke. 
 Then might her senses have been surely kept, 
 While the dread dragons of her fancy slept ; 
 A sister's heart was riven ; her sister's care — 
 Look in that hut, and see that maniac there ! 
 Toothless that mouth, where once the graces hung, 
 And round her song their lilied odours flung ; 
 
38 BARBADOES. 
 
 Bare is that bosom, where loves nestling lay, 
 Till they by faithless man were scared away ; 
 Flashing with madness those fierce senseless eyes, 
 Which once expressed ten thousand witcheries ; 
 That form disfigured, scarcely covered o'er 
 With decent rags, where Venus spent her store 
 Of choicest beauties ; which, with loving hand, 
 Herself had bound with her own mystic band. 
 Seethe poor victim, senseless, bleeding, bound — 
 While Want, and Woe, and Madness glare around ! 
 
 The steady trade-wind gently cools the air ; 
 Its strength increases with the glowing glare, 
 Declines in vigour with declining day, 
 Till with the evening's shade it dies away. 
 Delightful climate ! blest Hesperides ! 
 Fanned by cool breezes, laved by loving seas ; 
 Where winter scowls not nor deforms the year, 
 But their green dress the trees for ever wear. 
 While healing Zephyr, on his fragrant wings, 
 O'er the pure wave his balmiest odour brings ; 
 At morning, kisses every opening flower, 
 And melts at evening in a dewy shower. 
 
 Here oft descends the health-imparting rain, 
 Makes green the hill-top, cheers the thirsty plain. 
 But in this isle, which Beauty calls her own, 
 The fearful drought, alas ! is not unknown. 
 
BAUEADOES. 39 
 
 Then droops the herbage, droops the sapless cane — 
 
 The planter's labour and his hopes are vain. 
 
 The sickening trees give out a fainter shade ; 
 
 The shrubs are dying in the sheltered glade ; 
 
 No flowers upon the feeble stalks are seen — 
 
 The face of Nature wears a mournful mien. 
 
 The afflicted cattle pine away and die, 
 
 The birds scarce flutter in the cloudless sky ; 
 
 The food of man himself begins to fail ; 
 
 The hill-tops languish, and the valleys wail. 
 
 The planter marks the changes of the moon, 
 
 And prays, impatient, for the vital boon ; 
 
 Hopes, and despairs ; despairs, and hopes again, 
 
 Till down at last descends the healing rain. 
 
 Joy, joy ! long fleece-like clouds from ocean rise, 
 
 And welcome darkness spreads along the skies. 
 
 Be wise, ye planters ! clothe your hills with trees ; 
 Invite the clouds that sail upon the breeze. 
 Time was, while yet the mountain-forest stood, 
 And heights and gullies were thick-set with wood ; 
 And lofty trees the verdant valleys graced — 
 No cruel drought our smiling hopes defaced. 
 But from the vales the trees have disappeared, 
 And gone the shoots the hills and gullies reared : 
 Hence the morn-mist no grateful shower distils ; 
 The clouds sail o'er the inhospitable hills. 
 
40 BARBADOES. 
 
 But once again let forests crown the height, 
 And pining misery will void your sight ; 
 No more the melancholy hills shall wail, 
 And hunger- worn distress deform the vale ; 
 But Plenty pour her brimful horn around, 
 And hut and stall with glad content resound. 
 
 While the noon-lustre o'er the land is spread, 
 The listening lizard hides his star-lit head : 
 The four-o'clocks their shrinking petals close, 
 And wearied man seeks shelter and repose. 
 The negroes now desert the master's field, 
 And seek the joys that dearest home can yield ; 
 Their little children claim the mother's care — 
 Some cull the pepper, and their meals prepare ; 
 Some dress their gardens ; some a fish-net spin ; 
 While childhood's merry laugh is heard within. 
 How calm and tranquil look those negro-huts, 
 Their fruit-trees round, and scattered cocoa-nuts ! 
 Their dear security the negro loves, 
 While through his shrubs and vines he lordly moves. 
 
 Ah, happy is his lot, from ill secure ! 
 He oft is wealthy, while his lord is poor : 
 Law and opinion guard his home from want ; 
 Nor horrid debts his tranquil pallet haunt. 
 Him, well-disposed, no voice of anger chides ; 
 For every need his master's care provides. 
 
BARBADOES. 41 
 
 Each has his homestead and his faithful hound, 
 To keep his door and watch his garden-ground. 
 The tradesman proud of station and of skill 
 Erects his head on high ; and prouder still 
 The ranger walks, the monarch of the plain ! 
 And with his boy surveys his wide domain. 
 The master's eye is on his people set, 
 He loves the glistening face of honest jet ; 
 He mingles with them in their mirthful hour, 
 He gives the simpering bride her marriage-dower ; 
 He stands the sponsor for the bouncing boy — 
 Sleeping or waking, they his thoughts employ. 
 No churlish tyrant he to mar their mirth ; 
 He loves their sports, and often gives them birth. 
 
 So with his slaves the patriarch of old 
 His cattle pastured and enclosed his fold ; 
 Saw them with joy the mien of gladness wear, 
 And for their sorrows had a ready tear ; 
 With them he dwelt, and colonised or roved — 
 The slave was trusted, and the master loved. 
 
 Our island-slaves once loved their father- friend, 
 Content with his their happiness to blend ; 
 And still would love him ; — but from England goes 
 A moving narrative of negro-woes ; 
 Of brands and tortures, only known by name — 
 Of lawless power and slavery's damning shame. 
 
42 BARBADOES. 
 
 The senseless zealot arms the negro's hand, 
 
 And bids him whirl the torch and bear the brand ; 
 
 Leave all the peaceful joys he knows behind ; 
 
 Cast love and mercy to the babbling wind ; 
 
 Baptise himself in fire, and through a sea 
 
 Of blood and battle wade to liberty ! 
 
 Hence comes the plot, the agony of strife, 
 
 The toil of treason, and the waste of life ; 
 
 The sound of battle, rushing through the trees ; 
 
 The hurried tramp of frantic savages ! 
 
 The slave, infuriate, pants for Freedom's smiles, 
 
 And Hayti's fate attends our Eden-isles. 
 
 END OF PART I. 
 
BARBADOES. 
 
 PART II. 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 Address to England and her worthies. The discovery of America. 
 Raleigh. Barbadoes settled by the English; has never been 
 subject to any other power. Sheltered many of the cavaliers 
 after the murder of Charles I. The resident gentry sprung 
 from these. The women described. Influence of beauty anc 
 love. The negro happy in his domestic relations. Crop time. 
 A cane-piece on fire. The island free from some diseases. 
 The yellow fever. The islanders vindicated from the charge 
 of irreligion. Lord Combermere, the founder of the central 
 school. The bishop and his clergy. The missionary. The 
 island celebrated for its physicians. The laws duly adminis- 
 tered. Close of day. Fontabelle. Sunset. Night, " beautiful 
 exceedingly." Reflections. The hurricane. The negro festi- 
 val. The old African. Lovers. Insurrection. St. Domingo. 
 The negroes conscious that their condition is better than that 
 of Africans in their own country. Danger of immediate eman- 
 cipation. Appeal to England ; to the King. Conclusion. 
 
BARBADOES. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Mother of heroes ! cradle of the brave ! 
 Whose forest floats on ocean's subject wave ; 
 In Fame's proud temple whose the proudest name, 
 Most free from stain, most innocent of shame ; 
 Whose generous bosom teems with various wealth ; 
 Whose vales are redolent of rosy health ; 
 Whose banner flutters to the wanton gale 
 Of every clime — hail, mighty mother, hail ! 
 
 Immortal worthies ! England's dearest pride, 
 Meet sons to spring from such a mother's side ; 
 Her beautiful, her own peculiar brood, 
 Conceived and shaped in Nature's happiest mood ; 
 Free-born, high-souled, untamed, untameable, — 
 The viewless ones ; whose spirits, like a spell, 
 Enchain our fancies ; from whose graves arise 
 Bright shapes of power, majestic memories; 
 
46 BARBADOES. 
 
 Whose towering forms the enthusiast marks at eve ; 
 In whose bright presence beating hearts believe ! 
 True sons of fame ! time-honoured, time-improved : 
 As ages roll, more valued and more loved ; 
 Soul-stirring valours ! stars that fix our eyes ; 
 Undying dead, haught immortalities ; 
 Whose names we cherish as our coat of mail — 
 True sons of England, mighty spirits, hail ! 
 
 When happy Genius, with resistless eye, 
 Traversed old ocean's wild immensity, 
 Saw from its bosom continents arise, 
 And fairy islands woo the Hesperian skies ; 
 When bold Adventure o'er the waters flew, 
 And for the old world sought and found the new ; 
 Returned in triumph, and his wonders told, 
 Of lands of promise and barbaric gold ; 
 Of boundless realms in one green summer drest, 
 And isles of beauty sparkling in the west ; 
 Of precious stones that lay loose - scattered there ; 
 Of fish that flew and fluttered in the air ; 
 Of skies that glittered with a cloudless light, 
 And living lamps that gemmed the ear of night ; 
 Of simple Indians that believed them gods, 
 Just floated to their shores in winged abodes ; 
 That stood or moved upon the deep at will, 
 Instinct with life, with deadly power to kill ; — 
 When from the Tagus and the loitering Seine 
 Brave hearts pursued the wake of happier Spain, 
 
BARBADOES. 47 
 
 Was England idle ? — were her sons asleep. 
 While rival nations hurried o'er the deep ? 
 
 Let those vast shores her enterprise attest, 
 Which long drew life and vigour from her breast ; 
 To which her language and her arts she gave, 
 And won, meanwhile, the empire of the wave ; 
 Which long, dependent on her fostering aid, 
 With filial fondness all her love repaid ; 
 Till her young off-shoots, in their full-grown pride, 
 Withdrew their branches from their mother's side ; 
 Stood by themselves, with conscious strength elate ? 
 And, self-supported, bloomed in palmy state. 
 
 Unhappy Raleigh ! destined to pursue 
 A phantom still receding from thy view ; 
 Thee fond ambition from thy home beguiled, 
 To seek a treasure in the distant wild ; 
 And still, upon the glittering prize intent, 
 To trace the depths of either continent ; 
 To search the mountain- side, the river-bed, 
 And chase afar the hope that farther fled : 
 In vain Virginia graced the virgin reign ; 
 The promise of Guiana bloomed in vain ; 
 Nor golden mine, nor pearl-encrusted tree, 
 Nor diamond-valley brightened there for thee : 
 In vain the forest spreads its arms around ; 
 In vain with flowers and fruits the vales abound ; 
 
48 BARBADOES. 
 
 In vain the Dryads shriek, the Indians bleed — 
 Thy long-sought treasures are — a root and weed ! 
 Hero and statesman ! poet, pirate, slave ! 
 Thine was a restless life — a bloody grave. 
 The benefactor of his country died, 
 A coward's offering to a tyrant's pride ! 
 
 Fair rose the morning on the bearded isle, 
 And bright the welcome of her virgin smile ; 
 Sparkled the wave, and listening seemed the wood, 
 The happy birds were in their merriest mood, — 
 When first her bay was dipt by English oar, 
 And English shouts came cordial to the shore ; 
 When England wooed her, and the bridal song 
 Was heard her thickets and her groves among ; 
 When loving hearts their burning thoughts revealed, 
 And loving lips the holy contract sealed ; 
 And happy lovers oft were heard to bless 
 The lot that led them to the wilderness ; 
 When first the infant's low and wailing cry 
 Rose faintly in our island-Araby : 
 Sun, moon, and stars, looked loving from above, 
 And fond earth nursed them with a mother's love ; 
 While gardens grew from out the sylvan-lair, 
 Till a new England bloomed in beauty here. 
 
 Here has our mother's altar still remained ; 
 Nor foeman's foot our soil has ever stained. 
 
BARBADOES. 49 
 
 Not to her husband fonder clings the bride, 
 Than we have clung and cling to England's side. 
 The harp of memory wakes for her its tones, 
 She keeps our household gods, our fathers' bones ; 
 From her our day-dreams and our visions come — 
 Our treasure-house of sweets, our only home ! 
 
 "When stern rebellion stained the parent queen, 
 And on her bosom impious blood was seen ; 
 When frighted mercy shrieked and fled away, 
 And red-armed murder stalked in open day ; 
 When Whitehall saw the tragedy complete, — 
 The crown and sceptre at the rabble's feet; 
 When, smit the shepherd, fled the scattered sheep, 
 And sought a shelter o'er the friendly deep ; 
 They sought and found it in this happy isle, 
 Secure from treason and the traitor's wile ; 
 Where still the king was seated on his throne, 
 The king was honoured, and the king alone ; — 
 No despot-rabble and no despot chief, 
 To work them present dole and after grief ; 
 In weal or woe their loyalty the same, 
 They nursed their sorrow, but they had no shame. 
 
 Names ever-honoured and for ever dear ! 
 Blest saints ! whose brows a blooming chaplet wear ; 
 Who for the altar and their monarch bled, 
 But from the shame of treason's triumph fled ; 
 
 E 
 
50 BARBADOES. 
 
 Who manful to the last maintained their ground, 
 And still, when faithful few, were faithful found. 
 The bearded isle enfolds their pious bones, 
 And proudly for her sons their children owns ; 
 And bids them still their fathers emulate, 
 With better omens and a happier fate. 
 
 Our patriot- fathers in their sons survive ; 
 Our Saxon mothers in their daughters live — 
 Rich buds of beauty ; whose quick-rolling eyes 
 The guards and outlets of the soul surprise ; 
 Beneath whose fringed brows the graces sit, 
 Over whose cheeks love's rosy blushes flit ; 
 Venus's own nectar on their lips is found, 
 With her own cest their slender forms are bound ; 
 Whose beating hearts the fondest wishes move ; 
 Their presence blessing, and their life is love ! 
 
 Chaste, wedded love ! from baser taint refined, 
 Whose throne is seated in the gentle mind ; 
 Here dost thou love to work thy honest spell, 
 To fix thy homestead and for ever dwell. 
 Here thy own star, with love peculiar, shines 
 On our blest gardens and our fruitful vines. 
 A chaste Armida spreads her magic round, 
 And all the joys of love and life abound ; 
 On flower and leaf a fresher hue is seen, 
 A milder lustre and a softer green ; 
 
BARBADOES. 51 
 
 While shines the star, that erst on Eden shone, 
 And earth and heaven seem blended into one. 
 
 Italia ! boast thy beauty-breathing forms, 
 Which love has fashioned and which passion warms ; 
 Shew, Spain ! in orange-bower or gay saloon, 
 Thy dark-eyed beauties, with their brow of June ; 
 Let Gallia's sylph-like daughters twirl the dance, 
 Breathe the warm sigh or shoot the amorous glance ; 
 Let the soft German, with her snowy skin, 
 Reveal the lurking fire that lives within ; 
 Let Georgia and Circassia boast their fair, — 
 " Their eyes' blue languish and their golden hair." 
 Let England shew her brightest and her best— 
 Of all earth's lovely forms the loveliest ; — 
 Our own dear island's daughters we recall, 
 Lovely as most, more loving than them all. 
 
 Beauty, immortal and undying ! thou 
 Hast ever filled the living world — as now. 
 The universal face of Nature seems 
 Flushed with the glory of thy summer dreams ; 
 Headland and valley, tree, and herb, and flower, 
 Feel evermore thy mastering, quickening power. 
 The insect floating in the listless air ; 
 The monster couching in his cruel lair ; 
 The scaly dweller of the fickle sea, — 
 All that has life owes life itself to thee. 
 
52 BARBADOES. 
 
 Beauty is love ! each creature in its kind 
 Sees fair proportion with its being twined ; 
 And pants for fellowship with what it sees, 
 And yields to its o'ermastering sympathies. 
 Where is not beauty ? where not crowning love ? 
 Go, ask the eagle or the gentle dove : 
 The one sails upward to his mountain-nest ; 
 The other trembles to a trembling breast. 
 Fair daughter of the sun ! why lost thy bower, 
 Thy magic circle, all its wonted power ? 
 Why, on thy fragrant bosom, in thy arms — 
 The favoured master of thy world of charms — 
 Did thy sad lover fret and pine away 
 For glory's dream ? for barren Ithaca ? 
 In thy embrace he heard his true-love sigh ; 
 She was worth more than immortality ! 
 
 Bounds not the pulse within the negro's vein ? 
 Scorns he the flowery yoke — the silken chain ? 
 Will conquering Love not stoop his plume to wave 
 Over the pallet of the Libyan slave ? 
 See in yon negro-hut that looks so calm, 
 With jasmine twined, and shaded by the palm, 
 The wife and mother. Is her eye not bright 
 With speaking love, and love-bestowed delight ? 
 See the fond father on his infant smile ! 
 Hear the loud laugh the urchin's tricks beguile ! 
 
BARBADOES. 53 
 
 Lying at ease, and sheltered from the heat, 
 Is he not happy in his cool retreat ? 
 He goes to toil ; the hour is on the wing, — 
 Home and its joys the evening-tide will bring ; 
 His daughter's prattle, and his wife's caress, 
 The father's joy, the husband's happiness ; 
 Or else he sees gay pleasure's train advance, 
 The feast, the song, the revel, and the dance. 
 
 The different seasons different cares demand, 
 To reap the crop, or till the willing land ; 
 But happiest is the negro when the canes 
 Yield their rich juice, and bless the planter's pains. 
 
 In that blest month, to all the cane-isles dear, 
 Which Numa added to the circling year ; 
 Which other climes with hideous sights deforms, 
 And ushers in the year with howling storms, 
 With sleet, and snow-falls, and impetuous hail, 
 The shrieking blast and desolating gale ; 
 But here comes softly, comes a welcome guest, 
 In robe of green, and flowery kirtle drest ; 
 Sports with the Naiad on the sparkling deep, 
 Or on the Dryad's bosom falls asleep. 
 In that dear month, when every cane-field blooms 
 In pride mature, and waves its downy plumes, 
 The lofty mill-points wear their canvass sail, 
 Shake to the breeze, and court the favouring gale ; 
 
54 BARBADOES. 
 
 The new-hung coppers shine with polished glow, 
 The fire-man with his cane-trash stands below ; 
 And busy preparation loudly sounds 
 Through the glad buildings and the yellow grounds. 
 
 Soon as the gray dawn peeps upon the hill, 
 Soon as the daylight falls upon the mill, 
 Swarms forth the laughing, happy negro-throng, 
 While through the glad air rings the crop-time song : 
 Not dearer home to school-imprisoned boys, 
 Nor cheerlier sing they home's enchanting joys. 
 Some lop and strip the yellow-jointed cane ; 
 The branchy spires the happy cattle gain ; 
 The tender prickly tops, with eyes thick set, 
 Fall on the fields, where they shall flourish yet, 
 When once again is hoed the fertile plain, 
 And vows are offered for the genial rain. 
 Meanwhile, in bundles bound, the luscious canes, 
 Brought to the pathway, fill the creaking wains ; 
 The glad mill dances ; down the liquid wealth 
 Pours to the boilers. Ye, whose failing health 
 Speaks in your faded cheeks, your drooping eyes, 
 Drink the health-giving stream the mill supplies ! 
 Nor balsam, nor the moss that Iceland hives, 
 Nor gum medicinal, such vigour gives. 
 Hence come the sickly, hence the healthy fair, 
 To win their roses back — or take the air. 
 
BARBADOES. 55 
 
 The ruddy planter dreams not shapes so bright 
 Can rob his day of peace, of sleep his night ; 
 But feels at morn strange flutterings in his breast, 
 And on his weary bed he finds no rest. 
 
 With molten gold the polished coppers foam, 
 While many a wreath of mist enwraps the dome : 
 All is alive, each gang responsive sings ; 
 The mill-yard reels with joy, and echo rings. 
 Who is not here ? the little urchin bawls ; 
 Halt palsy from his leafy pallet crawls ; 
 The centenary, with his head of snow, 
 Forgets his years — the widow half her woe ; 
 The stranger, come to see the burning shame 
 Of negro wrongs, forgets for what he came ; 
 He hears their merry laugh, their joyous strain, 
 His sides are aching, yet he laughs again. 
 He hears no groan, he hears no cruel lash, 
 Their maddening mirth he sees no tyrant dash. 
 But soon the stranger back to England goes — 
 He talks of brands, a frightful scourge he shews ; 
 Shudders whene'er is named the horrid isle, 
 Where negroes never dance, and never smile, 
 But groans and wailings ever vex the sky ; — 
 Plaudits resound, and cheers await the spy. 
 
 Out on the hypocrite who loudly rails 
 On negro-wrongs, and deals in lying tales ! 
 
56 BARBADOES. 
 
 Who loud-voiced roars, and cracks his brazen throat, 
 And, beam-eyed, triumphs at his neighbour's mote ; 
 A nation's folly only skilled to prove, 
 The world's machinery attempts to move ; 
 And, strong in self-opinion, undismayed, 
 Looks on the goodly state in ruin laid — 
 Reckless of mischief, and his country's fall, 
 So that the babbler may have leave to brawl. 
 
 But some there are, the truly good and wise, 
 We blame not, nor their holy sympathies ; 
 And men, while Niger issues from his source, 
 Shall love the name of generous Wilberforce. 
 The friends of man, through all their circling days, 
 The good shall reverence, and the muse shall praise: 
 For they no specious veil of falsehood wear ; 
 Theirs is no hollow smile, no feigned tear; 
 True to their faith, and honest in their aim, 
 They scorn luxurious days and idle fame ; 
 Hunt after truth, and when they miss their way, 
 From weakness falter, or from blindness stray. 
 
 Unconscious of the stranger's evil eye, 
 The negroes still their pleasant labours ply; 
 Through all the crop-time jollity prevails, 
 And glad content, while breezes fill the sails. 
 But sometimes calms make droop the planter's eyes, 
 Or showers, unwelcome then, o'ercloud the skies ; 
 
BARBADOES. 57 
 
 The mill revolves not, or the trash is wet ; 
 The serf is listless, and his lord in debt. 
 
 But when the steers forget their toil in sleep, 
 And night sits brooding on the moaning deep, 
 What horrid cries are those ? what deafening bells, 
 With wild alarms come surging through the dells ? 
 What gleaming lights bring back the parted day ? 
 What lurid brightness scares the night away ? 
 A cane-piece is on fire ! it spreads, it spreads ! 
 The zealous negroes leave their leafy beds ; 
 From every village comes the friendly aid, 
 Help pours from every hill and every glade. 
 See the wild gestures of the eager throng ! 
 See the swart forms that dash the flames among ! 
 Their zeal the fire's fierce onset cannot stay ; 
 These canes they cut, and those they tear away. 
 As though the heir-born of the element, 
 To take their fiery heritage intent, 
 They bore a charmed life, that fire's red tongue 
 Can harm not ; or they were the demons sung 
 By poets, whom the incensed father bound 
 In Etna's entrails ; where still rings the sound 
 Of beaten anvils and the labouring forge, 
 While the deep caves their lava-birth disgorge ; 
 They leap among the flames ! but all is vain ; 
 Nor spires, nor shoots, nor arrowy tops remain. 
 
58 BARBADOES. 
 
 Burnt to the ground, a desert, scorched and bare, 
 Looks hissingly upon the morning air. 
 
 In thee, dear island, may the fiery pest 
 But seldom startle sleep ; O, be thou blest, 
 As years revolving wing their rapid flight, 
 By Him who rules by day and saves by night ! 
 He guards thy villages, and keeps thy vales ; 
 Health, at his bidding, comes upon the gales. 
 We have not here the imp of pallid hue, 
 With glassy eyes, and veins meandering blue, 
 That on the tender victim artful steals, 
 And on her brow death's impress deadly seals. 
 Consumption dire ! whose darts are ever plied 
 With aim unerring, growing to the side ; 
 That cruel crashed the sweet-toned lyre of Keats, 
 Whose name Rome's dreary solitude repeats ; 
 And bent, insidious, o'er the couch of White, 
 And veiled the poet with the shroud of night. 
 In our green isle no forms depraved are seen, 
 Mishapen monsters with a conscious mien. 
 In that dear sorrow which her patience tries, 
 Woman on woman's aid alone relies ; 
 And safe, the mother smiles at her alarms, 
 And gives the new-born to its father's arms. 
 
 Yet, here, alas ! dread torments scattering, 
 Hovers at times with dark and baleful wing, 
 
BAKBADOES. 59 
 
 The Terrible ! the plague, whose yellow hue 
 
 Makes the loved features painful to the view ; 
 
 Frights the vexed mind with many a fearful dream, 
 
 And with corruption taints the vital stream. 
 
 To which renowned Leith a victim fell ; 
 
 The dome of heroes pealed not forth his knell — 
 
 He came in sadness o'er the distant wave ; 
 
 In sadness and in sorrow died the brave. 
 
 No sister's voice spake comfort to his pains ; 
 
 No consort wept upon his cold remains — 
 
 Of all Britannia's chivalry the pride, 
 
 He lived neglected, and forsaken died. 
 
 But when death's arrow has unerring flown, 
 And the sad ear has heard the latest groan ; 
 When o'er her infant the lone mother weeps, 
 And o'er the senseless still her love-watch keeps ; 
 When the bereaved widow sits and mourns 
 The light of life that never more returns ; 
 When the lorn orphan sheds youth's bitterest tear, 
 And fondly calls on those who cannot hear ; 
 When the fond youth demands his blooming bride, 
 By death torn rudely from his faithful side ; 
 When the wild lover wakes the echoes round 
 For her who sleeps beneath the church-yard mound, 
 Or sees the early flowers he watched with care, 
 To grace her bosom, or to twine her hair, 
 
60 BARBADOES. 
 
 Which for her bridal morn he hoped to cull, 
 Deck that cold brow — so pale, so beautiful ! 
 When from his clasp hope's fondest visions fly, 
 His only hope in life, himself to die ; — 
 Is there no comfort — no consoling balm, 
 To heal the wound — the throbbing heart to calm ? 
 Blooms there no promise in our island- glade ? 
 No flower of faith ? no balm of Gilead ? 
 Flashes no form of light amid the gloom — 
 No bright-eyed Hope, that points beyond the tomb ? 
 Go, ask the mourner ; he, with streaming eyes, 
 Calls his own dead a flower of paradise ; 
 Rebukes his sorrow, and with chastened mind 
 Looks for the blessings lingering yet behind ; 
 And kindling speaks — nor vain his pious trust — 
 Of hopes that spring and blossom in the dust. 
 
 Yes ! there is heard Religion's soothing voice, 
 That bids the mourner mid his wreck rejoice ; 
 The heart beat kindly for another's weal, 
 And mortal man for mortal sorrow feel. 
 Yes ! there are heard, at morn and dewy eve, 
 The vows of those that worship and believe ; 
 Here does the infant, at his mother's knee, 
 Lisp with upturned face his earnest plea ; 
 Here prays the world-stained with his weight of sin, 
 And owns the voice that warns him from within ; 
 
BARBADOES. 61 
 
 There's joy in heaven ! for sin the sinner grieves ; 
 Joy, joy ! the death-devoted captive lives ! 
 
 The busy week is done of worldly care ; 
 The bell invites them to the house of prayer. 
 The negro comes in holy day attire, 
 His voice, not inharmonious, swells the choir ; 
 His earnest look is on the preacher bent, 
 In love, and fear, and awe, and wonderment. 
 Schools for the children bless their bishop's eye— 
 Faith for the living, hope for those that die. 
 
 The central school ! how loud the note of praise, 
 While fathers watch their hopes of future days ; 
 And grateful memory keeps with pious care 
 The loved and honoured name of Combermere ! 
 Thy praise, too, Packer, other days shall tell ; 
 Thine was the system, thine the zeal of Bell, 
 The patient love that silent works its way, 
 The kindling faith no obstacles can stay. 
 
 Nor, Coleridge ! shall the grateful isle forget 
 To thee her vast, unutterable debt : 
 Thou a true father to our hopes hast proved, — 
 A tender shepherd, by his flock beloved. 
 With thee came blessing ; over thee the Dove 
 Flutters the brooding wing of holy love. 
 
62 BARBADOES. 
 
 Our own apostle ! good, and wise, and true, 
 Persuasion steeps thy lips in heavenly dew ; 
 While to thy meek and upward glance is given 
 A light reflected from the throne of Heaven. 
 Blessings go with thee ! Heaven's best gifts attend 
 Our father, teacher, shepherd, guide, and friend ! 
 
 Pinder and Nurse ! can we forget your worth, 
 When those ye cherish daily bless your birth ? 
 Look on that beaming face, those streaming eyes, 
 That prostrate sinner ! hear the prayers that rise ! 
 Ye are rewarded ; Heaven looks smiling down ; 
 Yours is the palm-branch and the golden crown. 
 
 But one is absent, whom his country mourns ; 
 Nor yet her own, her favourite son returns. 
 O'er his young lips the bees enchanted hung, 
 And, as the Muses spake, the poet sung ; 
 But soon he brake his all-unwilling lyre, 
 Warm from the altar, rapt with holier fire ; 
 And now with higher inspiration fraught, 
 As though the prophet's mantle he had caught, 
 He peals the music of his tuneful voice, 
 Bids the bad tremble, and the good rejoice. 
 But ah ! forgetful of his native dells, 
 The holy man in some far country dwells ; 
 And still the bearded isle regrets her son, 
 And calls in vain on absent Chaderton. 
 
BARBADOES. 63 
 
 Here, too, have come, though few and far between, 
 The good Moravians, — grace of every scene 
 To which their task of love their steps has led,- — 
 To teach the sinner why the sinless bled. 
 Nor foul ambition, nor the lust of pelf, 
 Nor plumed vanity, nor love of self — 
 Has lured them from their strait and narrow way, 
 To win the lost, recover those that stray. 
 
 Far from his friends, his country, and his home, 
 It is the missionary's lot to roam ; 
 To traverse empires — oceans leave behind, 
 The pilgrim benefactor of mankind. 
 Patient, yet prompt ; when duty points the way, 
 He girds his loins, and hastens to obey ; 
 He heeds no change of country, nor of clime, 
 No sacrifice of comfort, health, and time. 
 No dangers daunt, no fears disturb his soul ; 
 He presses forward to the distant goal : 
 He sees the glorious prize hung up on high ; 
 He runs, he arms, he strives for victory. 
 In faith he visits many a savage race, 
 Content to have no home — no resting place ; 
 In faith he rears the banner of his lord ; 
 In faith he preaches, promulgates his word. 
 In the dry land, where water was not yet, 
 Wells forth a sweet, refreshing rivulet ; 
 
64 BARBADOES. 
 
 The thirsty soil with verdure now is drest ; 
 
 With peace and plenty crowned, the scene is blest ; 
 
 Sharon with roses glows, and round the tomb 
 
 Of man's pollution, flowers of promise bloom. 
 
 How beautiful the feet of those who preach 
 
 Glad tidings of salvation, and who teach 
 
 The people holiness ! how lovely they 
 
 Who fill the dark holes of the earth with day ; 
 
 Mighty in faith, renewed in second birth, — 
 
 Who break the idols, and subdue the earth ! 
 
 Realm of the sun-god ! here his own best boon 
 Is freely given. Or at the sultry noon, 
 Morning or eve, his health-priests dress his shrine, 
 While round their brows the mystic serpents twine. 
 They know to draw from gum, and herb, and flower, 
 Each hidden virtue and mysterious power ; 
 To quench the fever, and relieve the pain, 
 That fires the bosom and that rends the brain ; 
 Or when their art avails them not to save, 
 To smooth the passage to the dreary grave. 
 Proud of her sons, our island fondly owns 
 The absent Cadell, and lamented Jones; 
 Cutting, whose kindling mind and piercing eyes 
 Trace Nature's depths, and read her mysteries ; 
 Thomas and Young, who justly claim to be 
 Sprung from the line of fair Epione ; 
 
BARBADOES. I 
 
 And while she weeps upon her Leacock's bier, 
 And sheds for Richards many a bootless tear, — 
 Blesses with conscious pride her favouring star, 
 That gave to England and the world her Farre. 
 
 Nor w r arped by love of gain, nor thirst of praise, 
 Here British Themis blooms with honest bays ; 
 Dispenses justice with an even scale, 
 Nor lets the great one o'er the weak prevail. 
 Beckles and Hinds ! your names suffice to tell, — 
 The sacred balance has been guarded well. 
 But here no outraged husband prays for aid ; 
 No wife her consort's honour has betrayed ; 
 Our fair ones leave the punishment and crime 
 To guiltier beauties of a colder clime. 
 
 But now the day is hastening to its close ; 
 The sun descending on the city throws 
 A flood of radiance ; eager for the dew, 
 Its bosom bares the Marvel of Peru. 
 A longer shadow from the hill is thrown ; 
 The shore is sparkling like a jewelled zone. 
 His homeward course the eager fisher plies ; 
 Watches the listless clouds and tranquil skies ; 
 And, as he sails, the sea-breeze whistling calls, 
 That ever rises as the trade- wind falls. 
 Now on her palfrey Beauty loves to ride ; 
 Her favoured suitor cantering by her side. 
 
 F 
 
66 BARBADOES. 
 
 The lazier carriage winds along the shore ; 
 While sauntering walks the timid — or the poor. 
 
 Now in thy green verandas, Fontabelle ! 
 Young buds of beauty work their mystic spell ; 
 Quick flashes on the swain the melting eye ; 
 The parted lips just breathe a conscious sigh ; 
 And as the shades of evening onward roll, 
 Love's soft infection steals upon the soul. 
 The enamoured lover then delights to be 
 In her own bower with his divinity ; 
 While she, with rosy cheek, admits his claim, 
 Smiles to his praise, and loves to speak his name. 
 
 How beautiful the sunset ! all the sea 
 A mirror, while the breeze blows wooingly. 
 Delicious coolness steals upon the land ; 
 The wave low-murmuring creeps upon the sand. 
 The air is full of odours ; leaf and flower 
 With winning sweetness greet the evening hour. 
 Sweet tender gloaming ! exquisite as brief ! 
 That dreamy love delights in, sacred grief! 
 When the fond dreamer loves to be alone, 
 Whisper his hope, or breathe his plaintive moan ; 
 When on the confines of the day and night, 
 The invisible seem starting into light ; 
 And all we know of beautiful and fair — 
 The fleshless and the living — flutters there. 
 
BARBADOES. 67 
 
 Then, while his thick and thronging fancies come, 
 The mourner thinks upon his childhood's home ; 
 Again he sits upon his mother's knee, 
 Kisses the cheek he never more may see ; 
 Holds by her hand, and proudly walks along, 
 Or, hushed to silence, listens to her song ; — 
 He thinks of many a scene, far, far away ; 
 The salvage woodlands, where he loved to stray ; 
 The mountain river, with its mighty roar ; 
 The pensive lake, the melancholy shore. 
 Drest in the moment's dim and shadowy hue, 
 The dead and absent steal upon his view. 
 He sees the tear-shower in his sister's eye ; 
 He hears his own Eugenia's latest sigh. 
 
 O, memory, memory ! in thy holy cell 
 The charities of home for ever dwell ; 
 Within thy depths youth's boiling passions burn ; 
 Our dead are living, and our loved return. 
 While droops the heart, and Love all-bleeding lies, 
 We feel the influence of purer skies ; 
 Our shrivelled dead becomes a shape of light, 
 With beauty glowing and with glory bright ; 
 And while we shed the soft and soothing tear, 
 We know that loving spirits linger near. 
 
 How beautiful is night ! the glorious sky 
 Is filled with countless gems — how silently ! 
 
68 BARBADOES. 
 
 Kind Hesperus first trims his distant fire ; 
 
 Then through the blue depths Cynthia leads her choir ; 
 
 And while she travels through her vast domain, 
 
 Unnumbered glories glitter in her train ; 
 
 Unnumbered lights their ordered station keep, 
 
 And shine reflected from the glassy deep ; 
 
 While o'er the measureless star-paved sky 
 
 Flashes the bright, o'erarching galaxy. 
 
 Life -breathing shapes ! we cannot think them less — 
 
 Onward they dance through heaven's vast hollowness; 
 
 And ever on the earth cast looks of love, 
 
 As though they wished her in their train above. 
 
 Glorious ! how glorious ! who can upward gaze 
 
 And see the circlets of that softened blaze, 
 
 Nor the Unseen, that rules their courses, bless, 
 
 And startled feel brief life's vain emptiness ? 
 
 This world is passing glorious ; fit to be 
 The palace-home of Immortality ! 
 And while the light of Heaven so softly smiles, 
 Why should not these, in truth, be Eden-isles ? 
 Sin ! sin ! that marred the world ! creation groans ; 
 The earth is weary of her weight of bones ; 
 She cries out on us ; she has never rest ; 
 We tear and trample her all-nurturing breast. 
 The earthquake and the thunder speak in vain ; 
 Famine, and plague, and death, come on amain ; 
 
BARBADOES. 69 
 
 We hear not ; Conquest fans his bloody wing, 
 And builds his throne on corses. Prophets sing 
 Of dole and doom ; the blinded have no eye ; — 
 Sin, sin ! thou art a deadly mystery. 
 
 How beautiful is night ! the wood is whist, 
 And lovingly is by the moonbeam kissed. 
 A night like this in gorgeous glory shone 
 On the dread doom of fated Babylon ; 
 Such lights upon her hanging-gardens danced, 
 Gleamed through the foliage, through the lattice glanced. 
 In such a night as this Caraccas fell, 
 While fearful rose a people's dying yell ; 
 In such a night was Lisbon's overthrow, 
 When fell in ruin, at the sudden blow, 
 The lordly palace and the convent wall, 
 The humble cottage and the stately hall ; 
 Her populous life lay buried ; yet — O yet 
 We read, we pity, shudder — and forget. 
 
 But not so tranquil is the brow of night, 
 When comes the awful blast of dread affright, 
 That in wild fury scours along the plain, 
 And from its depths stirs up the mighty main. 
 The dawn gives warning, when a fleece-like cloud 
 Scuds through the blue expanse, or like a shroud 
 Hangs on the hill-top ; noisome vapours rise, 
 As though corrupted corses taint the skies. 
 
70 BARBADOES. 
 
 The sun looked angry from his sinking car ; 
 
 The moon shrinks shuddering from the coming war. 
 
 The frighted stars their lovely circlets hide ; 
 
 The birds fly wailing from the sheltered side 
 
 Of hill or gully ; on the wind-cloud rolls ; 
 
 The obscene roaches gather from their holes ; 
 
 All nature, animate — inanimate — 
 
 Awaits in dread suspense the coming fate. 
 
 The shores re-echo to the moaning waves ; 
 
 And sobbing sigh the melancholy caves. 
 
 The dreariest darkness now the earth o'erlays ; 
 
 Now flashes frequent the electric blaze. 
 
 Down comes the frightful avalanche of rain ; 
 
 From the four points the tempest's winged train 
 
 Dash to the conflict, and with frantic force 
 
 Join their battalia, urge their awful course. 
 
 Earth opens, and her hidden waters boil ; 
 
 Rivers and cataracts, with wild turmoil, 
 
 Which late were modest streams or pebbly rills, 
 
 Dash thundering downward from the heaving hills. 
 
 The sea comes roaring on, as though to sweep 
 
 Earth's wrecks and ruins to the bellowing deep. 
 
 Against weak man, and his defenceless home, 
 
 Wind, rain, and ocean, in one battle come ; 
 
 Nor cease their fury, till upon the plains 
 
 Nor house, nor hut, nor sheltering tree remains. 
 
BARBADOES. 71 
 
 Thrice has the scourge laid bare the bearded isle, 
 Marred her sweet face, nor left a single smile ; 
 Stripped her of man's adornment, nature's dress, 
 And for a garden left a wilderness. 
 
 Behold the dead and dying ! brute and man, 
 Shut out from life by Heaven's mysterious ban, 
 At one fell swoop by ravening furies made, 
 In undistinguishable heaps are laid. 
 The house of prayer survives the city's fall, 
 To be a noisome, festering hospital ! 
 The ceiba stands in solitary pride ; 
 The ground it shades cries out for those that died. 
 The aged one, whose dwelling it o'ergrew, 
 Survives the crash ; while she, whose infant drew 
 Food from her bosom, mutilated lies, — 
 In death unconscious of her infant's cries. 
 The hour's new birth — the bridegroom of a day — 
 The free man and the slave have passed away. 
 The isle is full of mourning ; not an eye 
 But droops in sadness — not a cheek is dry. 
 Over their ruins hangs the hideous pall ; 
 The frantic Typhon slew or spoiled them all. 
 
 Divine Benevolence ! that never dies, 
 But in life's darkest hour its light supplies ; 
 Succours alike the bondman and the free, 
 And weeping bends o'er sad humanity ! 
 
72 BARBADOES. 
 
 Father of spirits ! it is thine to bless 
 
 The heart that bleeds for others' wretchedness ; 
 
 The grieving soul that soothes another's grief, 
 
 And finds in sympathy its best relief. 
 
 See woman's love ! see Pity's holy train, 
 
 Angels of comfort to the bed of pain ! 
 
 While o'er his couch the tender mercies bend, 
 
 The negro feels his master is his friend. 
 
 His head upon the lap of beauty lies ; 
 
 The holy man receives his latest sighs ; 
 
 Or, while returning health his strength renews, 
 
 His path with flowers the hand of kindness strews. 
 
 How beautiful the night ! how sweetly fall 
 Its shadows ! 'tis the negro-festival. 
 To the sound of flutes and drums they dancing come : 
 Not sweeter nor more musical the hum 
 Of falling waters to the drowsy ear, 
 Than those far sounds the wings of Zephyr bear. 
 They come, they come ! and in their train advance 
 Love, pleasure, joy, content, and esperance ! 
 Satins and silks and hosed legs they shew ; 
 Rich streams of cane-distilled nepenthe flow. 
 In his own valleys Saturn reigns confessed, 
 Rules or misrules — the golden and the blest. 
 Lovers in pairs go dancing o'er the green, 
 While Bacchus cheers them with his honest mien. 
 
BARBADOES. 73 
 
 Here may be seen the dance of Libya, 
 While honoured bands their native music play, — 
 The deep-toned banjoe, to their ears divine, 
 The noisy cymbal and the tambourine. 
 Such was the dance Ionia loved of yore, 
 While virgin troops the mystic emblem bore, 
 And priests or priestesses — nor thought it shame 
 To own the symbol when they felt the flame ; 
 Such image still the dancing Indians bear, 
 In praise of him who fructifies the year, — 
 While holy Ganges rears his placid head, 
 Well pleased to see his banks so visited. 
 Wanton each motion ; every motive seems 
 Waked into sense by soul-dissolving dreams ; 
 With linked arms they twine, or else advance 
 In the slow maze of floating dalliance. 
 While some, refined, the modern art display, — 
 That leaves the grace, and takes the shame away. 
 Pleasure and gladness sit on every brow ; 
 They, careless of the future, seize the now ; 
 And give their thoughts to frolic and to fun, 
 Till Saturn's reign of revelry is run. 
 
 There oft at night, her village-tree before, 
 The crone repeats her legendary lore ; 
 How Coromantee Jack, at risk of life, 
 Saved his young master in the hour of strife ; 
 
74 BARBADOES. 
 
 When in the gully, or the secret cave, 
 
 The rebels met the white-man's power to brave ; 
 
 How Ebo Robin quick as lightning flew, 
 
 And from the flames the bright-eyed Clara drew ; 
 
 How Goodfellow upon the slack-rope danced ; 
 
 With what wild eyes the Obeah prophet glanced, 
 
 When from the swoln side of the guilty dame, 
 
 Iron and glass and parrot-feathers came. 
 
 The old man, with his head of crisped snow, 
 Oft feels his blood in fresher current flow, 
 While his young master sits upon his knee, 
 And wondering hears his tales of Barbarie. 
 He speaks with shuddering of the dread descent 
 Of the bad demon from the firmament ; 
 Who finds his pleasure in our human groans, 
 In mangled carcasses and crankled bones ; 
 Of fleshless spectres rising to the view 
 Of the born seer; of fearful Bugaboo 
 That frights bad children, when, with cruel mind, 
 They strike or injure those of negro kind ; 
 Of rattling coffins, when the dead will not 
 Compose their quarrels and in quiet rot ; 
 Or else of villages surprised by night ; 
 Of burning rice-fields and the stormy fight ; 
 Of royal privilege of blood and doom ; 
 Of victims slaughtered on the chieftain's tomb ; 
 
BARBADOES. 75 
 
 Of wandering Arabs and the camel-train 
 That sweeps in safety o'er the desert plain ; 
 And while he lives his laughing childhood o'er, 
 He walks again on Amnion's sandy shore, 
 Visits the dear spot where his mother lies, 
 And sees above his head the Libyan skies. 
 
 The air was silent; stars and moon on high 
 Shone soothingly ; while from the bending sky 
 The earth drank freshness ; in the mellow sheen 
 The quivering shrubs shook sparkling all their green. 
 There was an antique porch, inlaid with flowers, 
 Where the young Graces often led the Hours. 
 Around it amorously did intertwine 
 The tendrils of the wreathed jessamine. 
 Roses were there to garland innocence ; 
 There grew the musical bright flowery fence ; 
 And over all a solitary palm, 
 In conscious pride, looked forth erect and calm. 
 In the far distance stood the towering mill ; 
 The village sheltered by a grassy hill ; 
 And ever as some stranger's step drew near, 
 The watch-dog's baying rose upon the ear. 
 Then hushed to silence, all was solemn still, 
 Save the soft tinkling of the hill-side rill ; 
 Or the faint murmur of the iEolian string, 
 Waked into sound by Zephyr's furtive wing. 
 
76 BARBADOES. 
 
 It was a happy stillness ; happy they 
 Who in that quiet porch all silent lay, — 
 A youth and maiden. He, with health unblest, 
 Had sought the cane-isle, which the powers love best, 
 Who to the wearied race of man impart 
 Health for the frame, and solace for the heart. 
 Health he had found, and ah, he found much more, 
 In one sweet maiden all Diana's store 
 Of pleasing coynesses and budding charms, 
 And all of Cytherea's potent arms ; — 
 Wreathed smiles ; the brow of Juno ; and a voice 
 That whispered music ; eyes that made rejoice 
 Whatever their soft glances rested on ; 
 A laugh to gladness genial, as the sun 
 To opening blossoms; on her cheek lay sleeping 
 The Graces, while the Loves their watch were keeping. 
 Beauty flowed down from every rounded limb ; 
 Her silk-soft hair was carefully kept trim, 
 Sacred to Venus ; did she stand or move, 
 Speak or keep silence, still a breathing love 
 Or new-born grace was to the life expressed ; 
 And whatsoe'er she did — in her seemed best. 
 Words had not to their thoughts a language given ; 
 Yet each did feel that holy hour w T as heaven. 
 There first, half-timid, with adventurous arm 
 He clasped her tapering waist ; there first the charm 
 Of happy daring fluttered in his breast ; 
 His loving arm was licensed there to rest. 
 
BARBADOES. 77 
 
 In dreamy softness lost, they felt their bliss ; 
 Their murmuring lips met, trembling to a kiss. 
 Holy and pure their love ; each conscious light 
 Of the down-looking heaven might bless the sight. 
 Yet not a word was spoken, but her head 
 Was pillowed on his bosom. Guilty dread, 
 And angry conscience, had for them no sting ; 
 They only grieved the hour was on the wing. 
 
 Why starts Eudora from her lover's arms ? 
 What means that piercing shriek, those wild alarms ? 
 Like two unconscious statues late they lay, 
 As though, love-wrapt, their souls had passed away. 
 But now his face shews wonder and distress, 
 And she stands like some frantic Pythoness ; 
 Or Ariadne when she woke from sleep, 
 And saw her Theseus hurrying o'er the deep ; 
 Or fair Proserpina, surprised by Dis, 
 While gathering roses and anemonies. 
 
 The heavens are red with wild-devouring fire ; 
 Fierce shouts come onward — nigher still and nigher ! 
 As though mad Uproar, disenchained from hell, 
 Had burst on earth, and shrieked his horrid yell. 
 Too well they knew what meant those fearful sounds ; 
 For him fierce conflict, agony, and wounds ; 
 For her the rude insulter's heated breath, 
 And outraged modesty, and brutal death ; 
 
78 BARBADOES. 
 
 The wildered virgin thousand horrors sees, — 
 In one short hour ten thousand agonies. 
 
 Blood-stained Rebellion shews her frightful head ; 
 On pour the insurgents, by fierce passions led ; 
 Baptised in blood and fire, they urge their way, 
 Spread their wild flames, and curse the lingering day. 
 Hope bids them rule their rulers, and embrace 
 The blooming daughters of a fairer race. 
 Scarce does the wind outstrip their maddened speed ; 
 Lust their incentive, Liberty their meed. 
 
 Down comes the gushing light of dewy morn ; 
 Dread day ! when thousands wish themselves unborn. 
 For a short space rebellion seems to thrive ; 
 Onward they swarm, like wasps that storm a hive. 
 The fires still rage ; the rich plantations burn ; 
 Dismay rains terrors from her brazen urn ; 
 Riot and rapine hang on murder's car, 
 And all the horrors of a servile war. 
 Rebellion has not prospered ; still our isle 
 Sees with delight her train of virgins smile ; 
 And the fond wife forgets her late alarms, 
 And slumbers peaceful in her husband's arms. 
 
 Far other fate, far other end was thine, 
 Hispaniola ! fruit nor fruitful vine 
 
BARBADOES. 79 
 
 Was spared in mercy ; the unconscious child 
 
 In vain put forth his little arms and smiled ; 
 
 The nurse dashed down the infant from her breast, 
 
 And o'er its mangled limbs her joy expressed. 
 
 The hapless consort saw his slaves deflower 
 
 The lovely blossom of his nuptial bower ; 
 
 The husband of an hour beheld his bride, 
 
 His virgin spouse, in beauty's early pride — 
 
 The long expected of his heart and bed — 
 
 Insulted, naked, violated, dead ! 
 
 No plea for mercy would the savage hear ; 
 
 The virgin's shriek, the old man's speechless tear, 
 
 The scream of childhood, and the well-known face 
 
 Of kindness, failed to move the ruthless race. 
 
 What wildering shrieks mid smouldering ruins rise ! 
 What screams of terror, and what anguished cries ! 
 The groans of pain, the curses of despair, 
 Madness and riot, rend the troubled air. 
 The delicate of women saved to be 
 A rude barbarian's wanton ; and the free 
 Bound to the wheel, or sawn, — like planks in twain, 
 Tortured and bruised and flayed and piecemeal slain ! 
 Few, few escaped ; the rest are dead to fame — 
 Remembered not — or with a blighted name. 
 Thus fell the good, the lovely, and the brave ! 
 Such are the tender mercies of the slave ! 
 
80 BAKBADOES. 
 
 Where Niger rolls his rapid stream along, 
 Enriching many a plain unknown to song ; 
 Whose bank the palm and flowering lotus shade, 
 To screen from curious eyes the bathing maid ! 
 The despot spirit haunts the ancient woods, 
 Rules in the village, ravages the floods. 
 There, prompt to ill, the savage feeds his pride, 
 Or bows his neck to creatures deified ; 
 There darkling Superstition sits and broods, 
 Making vast regions barren solitudes ; » 
 There Sin and Satan occupy and spoil, 
 And War and Famine desolate the soil ; — 
 All, all is savage ; dark-browed Hatred reigns, 
 And demons howl along the blighted plains. 
 
 From thence transplanted to this genial clime, 
 The serf forgets his heritage of crime ; 
 No more he thinks upon his Libyan skies ; 
 His native rites a purer faith supplies. 
 He looks with gladness for the promised day, 
 And horrid superstition flees away. 
 His life, his home, his property secure, 
 He knows his lot is better than before. 
 He grows for freedom, if 'tis Heaven's decree 
 These sons of Canaan shall at last be free. 
 But ah ! forbear, nor tempt his dangerous rage ; 
 For he is yet in freedom's pupilage. 
 
BARBADOES. 81 
 
 O, let not loose the fierce intestine foe, 
 Lest streams of blood in every island flow ; 
 Listen to reason ; let soft Mercy plead ; — 
 To free the negro, must his master bleed ? 
 First learn the right, and then the right pursue, 
 Lest one wild ruin all the empire rue. 
 Change is not wisdom, nor can license claim, 
 Or brute injustice, Freedom's holy name. 
 
 England ! our country ! which we call our own, 
 In our homes belted by the torrid zone ; 
 Land of our fathers ! wilt thou scorn us now, 
 And wear disdain on thy majestic brow ? 
 We are thy children — from thy side we sprung ; 
 Thy arts we foster, and we speak thy tongue. 
 For thee our infant's lisping lips have prayed ; 
 To thee our men their nursing-debt have payed ; 
 Have fought thy battles, have thy marts supplied ; — 
 Lived for thy honour, for thy glory died. 
 Shall generous England bid the weak despair ? 
 We ask, as yeanlings, all our mother's care. 
 The ostrich, desert-bred, unnatural bird ! 
 Unmindful of her young, has ever skirred, 
 With short wing beating on the sandy plain, 
 When comes the voice of war — the hunter's train. 
 Her eggs she leaveth careless on the earth, 
 Warms them in dust, and then neglects the birth ; 
 
 G 
 
82 BARBADOES. 
 
 Against her young ones hardening still her heart, 
 As though not hers, nor of herself a part. 
 Be not the ostrich ! we are born of thee ; 
 Warm from thy bosom, we have crossed the sea. 
 Quench not the youngling's yet imperfect breath ; 
 Leave not thy young to dole, and doom, and death. 
 
 This verdant island once was but a waste ; 
 Behold it now with every beauty graced ! 
 See the trim hamlet and the village green — 
 The cheerful actors and the busy scene ! 
 Shall this be ruined at the rabble's cry ? 
 Shall blood be offered to humanity ? 
 
 When the strong giant's limbs are lopped away, 
 Which gave him victory and regal sway, 
 A chattering ape may spurn his prostrate length, 
 Insult his ruin, mock his boasted strength. 
 Thy colonies have long been limbs to thee, 
 Strength in thy wars, in peace prosperity : 
 Let them be lopped, and mighty England's fame 
 Shall soon become a by-word and a name ; 
 While all the nations round the ruin press, 
 And wonder whence grew all thy mightiness. 
 
 My country ! dearest mother ! may the power 
 Of Heaven save thee in this disastrous hour ! 
 
BARBADOES. 83 
 
 United Albion ! may thy trunk yet stand, 
 Though scarred, not blasted by the traitor's hand. 
 Watered by heaven, new shoots again may grow ; 
 Within thy veins a healthier sap may flow ; 
 The branches of thy strength spread out anew, 
 And England to herself again be true. 
 
 Great William ! shall we call on thee in vain ? 
 
 To thee, unheard and unredressed, complain ? 
 
 Thy steps have lingered in our island-halls ; 
 
 Thy smile has graced our feasts and festivals. 
 
 Thou oft, when day has melted into night, 
 
 Hast shared our salt, and quaffed our wine-cup bright ; 
 
 Seen his young hopes round Alleyne's table stand, 
 
 And hailed them glories of a happy land. 
 
 When come, still welcome, has thy heart forgot, 
 
 Thy favourite island, and the seaman's cot ? 
 
 When dreams of brighter pleasure filled thy mind, 
 
 And still true pleasure left the dreams behind ; 
 
 As fondest fealty met thy kindling eye, 
 
 Service and duty, faith and loyalty ? 
 
 Oh, no ! as king, thou will not lose one gem 
 
 That sparkles in thy glorious diadem ; 
 
 Nor cast away the pearls, in ocean set, 
 
 Nor break the circle of thy coronet. 
 
 When comes that fate, which kings themselves must 
 
 know, 
 Entire, unbroken, must her birth-right go 
 
84 BARBADOES. 
 
 To England's daughter ; nor in vain our cry 
 To William's throne for aid and sympathy. 
 
 My own fair Island ! Fancy's darling bower ! 
 Though faint my song, and weak thy minstrel's power 
 O'er thee my thoughts still hover, still explore 
 Thy magic vales — thy bright and pictured shore. 
 Dear as the gushing fountain to the eye 
 Of dying Arab ; as the murmured sigh 
 Of his first love to Passion's eager ear — 
 Of him that loves too fondly not to fear ; 
 Dear as all things that sweetest, dearest be, 
 Art thou to me, my own bright Araby ! 
 O, far from thee be that dread fatal time, 
 The birth of horror, and the burst of crime ; 
 When all distinctions shall be laid in dust, 
 And ruin seize the merciful and just ! 
 Long ere again Rebellion rear her crest, 
 And madness mar the spot by Nature blest ; 
 And rapine, murder, anarchy defile 
 The peaceful glories of the bearded Isle ! 
 
 END OF PART II. 
 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES, 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 How changed that island from the savage scene 
 
 Of bearded monsters with their heads of green ! — Page 5. 
 
 The bearded fig is here alluded to, which gave name to this 
 and the neighbouring islands. This tree has been so often de- 
 scribed as to require no particular mention. It only now exists 
 (in Barbadoes) in the gardens of the curious. Pliny's descrip- 
 tion of it is written with his usual elegance, and is still the best. 
 Milton, though incorrect as to its foliage, has introduced it with 
 excellent effect, as affording our first parents some covering for 
 their nakedness, " when their eyes were opened, and they knew 
 that they were naked." 
 
 And both together went 
 Into the thickest wood ; there soon they chose 
 The fig-tree, not that kind for fruit renowned, 
 But such as at this day to Indians known 
 In Malabar or Decan, spreads her arms, 
 Branching so broad and long, that in the ground 
 The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow 
 About the mother tree — a pillared shade, 
 
88 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 High overarched, and echoing- walks between : 
 
 There oft the Indian herdsman, shunning heat, 
 
 Shelters in cool, and tends his pasturing herds, 
 
 At loopholes cut through thickest shade. These leaves 
 
 They gathered, broad as Amazonian targe, 
 
 And, with what skill they had, together sewed, 
 
 To gird their waist. 
 
 From these fig-trees the Portuguese called Barbadoes and the 
 neighbouring islands, "las Barbadas." 
 
 The chattering monkey is no longer seen. — Page 6. 
 
 One cannot help regretting the extermination of this harmless 
 and amusing family. The negroes had the most extravagant 
 notions on the subject of their sagacity. It was a saying oftheir's, 
 " Jacko know for talk well enough; but he too cute for talk; 
 'spose he talk, massa buckra make he work." Their admiration, 
 however, could not resist the temptation of slaying Jacko, on whose 
 head the price of a dollar was set. 
 
 The mocking-bird is often heard in the settlement of British 
 Guiana; the woods of which abound with an infinite variety of 
 birds of the most brilliant plumage. This sylvan Mathews imi- 
 tates the domestic birds very successfully. His own note is cheer- 
 ful, and is not unlike that of the nightingale. It is a shy bird, 
 and builds its nest very high, at the extremity of a waving branch. 
 Dr. Southey quotes from Davis a very characteristic anecdote. 
 He describes himself in one place as listening, by moonlight, to 
 one that usually perched within a few yards of his log-hut. A 
 negress was sitting on the threshold of the next door, smoking the 
 stump of an old pipe. " Please God Almighty," exclaimed the 
 old woman, "how sweet that mocking-bird sing ! he never tire." 
 
 The parroquets fly in South America in large troops. 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 89 
 
 The humming-bird is still to be seen in Barbadoes ; but its 
 varieties must be looked for in Guiana. For a very amusing 
 account of some of the wonders of America, the reader is referred 
 to " Waterton's Wanderings," where the wild man of the woods 
 is not only described, but has the honour of appearing in the 
 frontispiece. 
 
 The nut-brown warrior long has left the scene. — Page 7. 
 
 Mr. Bryan Edwards, in his excellent history of the West 
 Indies, has given an interesting account of the Charaibes. The 
 traces of these Anthropophagi are few and indistinct. The cata- 
 combs on the side of Hackleton's Cliff, some idols, and household 
 implements, are mentioned by Hughes. To the present genera- 
 tion a few names only preserve their memory. If the last Charaib 
 be supposed to have died in one of the mountain wilds of St. 
 Domingo, his imprecation on the European pirates will have 
 the interest that belongs to the late fulfilment of a curse. The 
 Quakers are the only people that ever kept faith with the natives 
 of the new world. 
 
 From their embowered huts come forth in throngs 
 The sable race * * * — Page 10. 
 
 The negroes proceed cheerfully to their work. They rise with 
 the sun, and their labours cease with it. The day is of twelve 
 hours' duration ; and the variation in it does not exceed half an 
 hour during the year ; but Mr. Fowell Buxton says that the 
 negroes work sixteen hours in the twenty-four; and "he is an 
 honourable man !" They have two or three hours in the course 
 of the day for refection. In fact, they work nine or ten hours at 
 most. Where task-work is assigned, they sometimes get done in 
 seven or eight hours. 
 
 During crop-time, the persons engaged in the boiling-house 
 are of necessity longer employed. These parties are often 
 
90 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 changed; and there is no part of the work of an estate which the 
 negroes like so well. 
 
 Mr. Buxton, with one of those amiable inconsistencies for 
 which he is so remarkable, has asserted that the master will derive 
 much benefit from the immediate emancipation of his slaves, as 
 they will do much more work. Yet he maintains that the negroes 
 are now grossly overworked. He proposes, also, that when eman- 
 cipated they shall be made to work by an armed police, instead of 
 doing so under the superintendence of a person called a driver, 
 who carries a whip as a soldier does a bayonet, or a constable his 
 staff. I trust, however, that the whip will be spontaneously done 
 away with in the colonies. The tread-mill, made to be vigorously 
 trodden, is a more effectual punishment. Solitary confinement is 
 better still. 
 
 There creep the nurturing vines. — Page 10. 
 
 The potatoe of Barbadoes is sweet. " Raleigh's root" becomes 
 sweet after two or three plantings. Eddas, yams, and cassava 
 are also very valuable roots : these are all nurturing in a double 
 sense ; for they fertilise the soil, as well as repay by food the 
 pains of the planter. The tillage of Barbadoes has reached the 
 highest perfection. There are not better farmers in the world 
 than the Barbadians. 
 
 The mailed anana. — Page 11. 
 This epithet is applied to the pine by Grainger. 
 
 The tempting tree, 
 For whose sweet fruit man lost his liberty .■ — Page 11. 
 
 The "forbidden fruit," which tempted mother Eve. After a 
 long ride, one of these fruits or a shaddock, with a glass of san- 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 91 
 
 garee (Anglice, negus), enjoyed in the sheltered coolness of a house 
 on a hill, is of more worth than iced water in summer. Madame de 
 Longueville, in such a situation, and after such a repast, would 
 have uttered, with infinite relish, her famous expression, " Quel 
 dommage que ce n'est pas un peche." 
 
 Star-apples with their leaves of double face. — Page 11. 
 
 One side of the leaf of this beautiful tree is purple, the other 
 bright green ; at a short distance, when the leaves rustle in the 
 wind, the effect is very striking. 
 
 The bread-fruit is chiefly valued amongst us as a memorial of 
 the paternal interest the father of his present majesty took in his 
 transatlantic subjects. Our colonies abound with such vegetable 
 wealth, that little store is set by its fruit ; though such food would 
 be very valuable in countries less favoured by nature. 
 
 The guava, hardiest native of the clime. — Page 11. 
 
 The jelly made from this fruit is the finest in the world. It is 
 an excellent addition to the only contradiction that is agreeable, 
 — punch. For a very novel and ingenious method of planting 
 this tree, consult Ligon, a quaint and interesting historian of the 
 island ; he calls rum by no other name than "kill-devil ;" it would 
 seem that in his time it had no other. 
 
 See the rare date. — Page 12. 
 
 The Jews in this island, who have given a name to one of the 
 best streets in Bridge-Town, used to carry in procession, on the 
 festival I have mentioned, branches of the date-tree, gilt and 
 dressed with flowers. It is interesting to observe them adhering 
 to all the rites and ceremonies which can keep alive in their minds 
 
92 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 the memories of their "pleasant land." They have successfully 
 claimed the respect of their fellow-colonists, and have been always 
 well treated by those whom Mr. Montgomery happily calls "the 
 funguses of the earth," — the West Indians. His book on the 
 West Indies has furnished those whom he attacks with infinite 
 amusement. We think that he meant it as an experiment on the 
 folly and credulity of his readers ; and, notwithstanding his un- 
 amiable demonstration against ourselves (if it was not a banter), 
 we admire the author of the " Pelican Island. " 
 
 Bananas, whose broad leaf the mitred head 
 Of high Osiris shaded. — Page 12. 
 
 " The banana bears a close resemblance to, and seems to be only 
 a variety of the plantain, which is the most valuable of the tropical 
 productions. It is generally used in its ripe state as fruit ; the 
 plantain in its unripe state as a vegetable. It was a symbolical 
 tree in Egypt. Osiris is represented with his head adorned with 
 banana leaves. Ludolphus, in his Ethiopic history, conjectures 
 that bananas were the mandrakes for which Jacob's wives con- 
 tended." — Hughes, Nat. Hist, of Barbadoes. 
 
 If the fruit is cut across, the section displays a close resem- 
 blance, as some think, to a cross and one hanging on it, I have 
 followed Hughes in the supposition that it was with the banana 
 leaf that Adam and Eve made aprons for themselves. The ceiba 
 is the silk-cotton tree. The may-pole is the Agave Americana. 
 
 Dr. Maycock has lately published a " Flora Barbadensis," to 
 which the curious in tropical plants are referred. 
 
 The gay troop laughs and revels in the sun. — Page 13. 
 
 It is amusing to hear mentioned as a dire aggravation of negro- 
 toil, that it is performed in a tropical sun. They delight in it, and 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 93 
 
 sometimes feel very uncomfortable in the rainy season. If they 
 had to work in cold frosty weather, they would indeed he soon 
 " kilt." But it is not necessary that pseudo-philanthropists should 
 have any knowledge of the physical condition of those in whose 
 favour their sympathies are excited. That Demerara — a part of the 
 vast continent of South America, the Guiana of Raleigh — should 
 be called in the senate an island, is a trine. That, generally 
 speaking, those who prate about the West Indies know as much of 
 those colonies as they do of the interior of China, is another trifle. 
 But of still less consequence is it that they should transform gen- 
 tlemen, and men, and Christians, into funguses, and savages, and 
 monsters. Sir Walter Raleigh, be it known, once upon a time 
 published a book giving an account of his discovery of Guiana ; 
 and in that book, with the fullest conviction, and on excellent 
 authority, he labours hard to persuade his readers that there was 
 in that country a race, " the most mightie men of the land," who 
 lived on the banks of that river "which is called Caora, whose 
 heads appeare not above their shoulders ; which, though it may be 
 thought a meere fable, yet for mine own part I am resolved it is 
 true, because every child in every province of Arromaia and 
 Canuri affirms the same. They are reported to have their eyes in 
 their shoulders, and their mouths in the middle of their breasts, 
 and that a long train of haire groweth backward between their 
 shoulders." 
 
 Are the violent declaimers against the West Indians satisfied 
 that they have better authority for believing the representations 
 they have heard or read of those "moral monsters" who dwell 
 in the colonies'? The moral lineaments of the colonists have been 
 as faithfully given as the features of the "mightie men" Sir W. 
 Raleigh has described : but the believers in his story did no harm ; 
 the believers in the other case would do well to read Bryan 
 Edwards's " Hist, of St. Domingo." Well did Shakspeare (blessings 
 on his name !) know the nature of his countrymen. 
 
94 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 But on one well-remembered morn there rose, 
 Or seemed to rise, no sun. — Page 13. 
 
 For an account of the fall of volcanic dust on the 1st of May, 
 1812, see a very interesting letter in " Blackwood," vol. i. p. 134. 
 The awfulness of the scene exceeds description. The celebration 
 of May-day, which was before always observed more majorum, has 
 since then been abandoned. I have no authority for stating that 
 the colour of the hair was changed in any individual instance ; but 
 there are many authenticated histories in which this change has 
 taken place in a few hours from anguish ; and it is likely enough 
 to have occurred on such an occasion as I have described. The 
 death from alarmed conscience is a fact ; it was the general opinion 
 that " the last day was come." The planters derived, after some 
 time, considerable benefit from the volcanic dust. It operated an 
 excellent change in the soil, and, in a manner, renewed it. 
 
 How graceful shews the bay that keeps, Carlisle ! 
 Thy name an honour to the loyal isle. — Page 17. 
 
 Lord Carlisle was the first patentee of the island, and the bay 
 is called after him. Nothing can be more beautiful than this bay 
 was ; but the last hurricane levelled all the cocoa-nut trees, which 
 formed no mean part of the picture. 
 
 Beware thee, stranger, lest soft slumber steal 
 
 Upon thine eyes beneath the manchineel. — Page 17. 
 
 Its fruit is about the size of the crab-apple. The juice of the 
 leaves, as well as of the fruit, is poisonous. It generally grows by 
 the sea-side ; and sea-water, according to Hughes, is an infallible 
 antidote. 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 95 
 
 Along that shore, with crimson juices rich, 
 
 The murex loiters in his favourite niche. — Page 17. 
 
 The ancients perpetually confounded the purpura and murex. 
 The latter is called by Aristotle x,ngv%, and by the Romans, 
 buccinum, from its being among the " sonantes concha." The 
 dye of the Barbadoes fish is a delightful crimson. Hughes 
 relates the story of Hercules, from Polydore Virgil. I have 
 represented Hercules as an epicure, after Aristophanes and 
 Euripides. " Toothsome" is a common word in Barbadoes, to 
 express any thing very agreeable to the palate. I may be per- 
 mitted to observe,' that " the English" of the island retains a 
 great deal of the quaintness of " the olden time." 
 
 Here brilliant shells of every shape and hue. 
 
 At morn and eve, the dark-eyed nymphs pursue. — Page 20. 
 
 The elegant accomplishment of shell-work is now going out of 
 fashion. Some of the specimens are extremely beautiful. There 
 is still a great variety of shells on our shores ; and it seems a pity 
 not to arrange them in something more tasteful than the cabinet 
 of the conchologist. The " pictured shore," as I have called it in 
 another place, invites our nymphs, as heretofore ; and their deli- 
 cate fingers cannot be ill employed in disposing and grouping 
 these natural colours ; of which Lucretius says beautifully — 
 
 " Concharumque genus, parili ratione, videmus 
 Pingere Telluris gremium, qua mollibus undis 
 Littoris incurvi bibulam lavit aequor arenam." 
 
 Lib. ii. 374. 
 
 Where the dread spout its watery volume sends. — Page 20. 
 
 The spout is a large hollow in the rock, through an aperture in 
 which is thrown up to a considerable height a vast body of water. 
 
96 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 The cave is in St. Lucy's parish. The " animal flower/' as it is 
 called, lives upon animalcules and very small fish. Hughes gives 
 a very interesting account of it. It is the link between the vege- 
 table and animal kingdoms ; being essentially animal, and having 
 all the appearance of a flower. I am not aware that it is found 
 elsewhere than in Barbadoes. It was for a long time a matter of 
 doubt whether it belonged to the animal or the vegetable kingdom. 
 
 There came the hapless gentle Yarico. — Page 23. 
 
 The story of Yarico is told, with a great deal of embellishment, 
 by Steele, in the eleventh number of the Spectator. Ligon's rela- 
 tion is given with inimitable simplicity. Mr. Colman has turned 
 the history into an opera. 
 
 Maligned Las Casas ! thine was not the crime 
 
 That tore the negro from his native clime. — Page 28. 
 
 Las Casas is now completely vindicated from the charge so 
 wantonly brought against his memory by Robertson. 
 
 The English serf. — Page 28. 
 
 " Christian servants," as Ligon calls them, were in the first 
 instance employed as well as Indians, in the tillage of the soil. 
 They were sometimes sent across the seas for misdemeanours ; 
 sometimes they went voluntarily, in the expectation of high wages ; 
 and sometimes they were kidnapped. Their condition was much 
 worse than that of the slaves, as it was the interest of the planters 
 to take especial care of the latter, and they lost but little by the 
 death of the others. The descendants of these whites had, after 
 the general introduction of Africans into the island, certain allot- 
 ments of ground assigned to them, on condition of their performing 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 97 
 
 military service, whenever called upon. Their posterity, a race 
 held in contempt by the negroes, and deeming themselves inferior 
 to no sons of Adam, go by the name of " the yellow-legged 
 buckras," from their contempt for hose and shoe-leather. They 
 are idle and insolent, to a proverb. A negro could scarcely be 
 found who would exchange lot or complexion with the best of 
 them. They raise a few roots, and fish a little, and beg not a 
 little. They think it foul scorn to burn pure oil ; but have no 
 shame in begging for filthy tallow. They are as distinct from the 
 other inhabitants as the sons of Ishmael from all the world 
 beside. 
 
 Pause, painted Britons ! ere ye take away, 
 
 By rash injustice, freedom 's future day,- — Page 30. 
 
 I use the term painted Britons to mark the inhabitants of Bri- 
 tain at the time of Caesar's invasion. I shall not enter on the dis- 
 cussion whether or no the Britanni were ever reduced to vassalao-e. 
 The labouring classes of England were slaves in the Norman's 
 time ; nor was it till the reign of the house of Tudor that the 
 people at large began to enjoy any thing like true freedom. The 
 discovery of America led to displays of enterprise and crime, in 
 which the English rivalled, at least, if they did not surpass, the 
 Don. Freedom must be of slow growth : slaves cannot at once 
 jump into the consciousness of freedom. The case was different 
 among the ancients, where in the class of slaves might sometimes 
 be found persons superior in civilisation to their masters. The 
 Hungarians, Poles, and Russians, are yet in a state of vassalage. 
 The experience of our own times, and the testimony of history, 
 prove that violent changes in society produce — any tiling but 
 good. It is insisted by the abolitionists that, since the cessation 
 of the slave-trade, no change has taken place for the better in the 
 condition of the slave. There never was uttered a greater false- 
 
 H 
 
98 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 hood. In no society, and at no period of the world, has a more 
 decided improvement in the condition of the labouring classes 
 been ever exhibited in the same given time. The objection is not 
 to ultimate, but to immediate emancipation. The integrity of the 
 empire, the life and prosperity of the master, and, above all, the 
 well-being of the slave himself, must be taken into consideration. 
 The present fashion, however, is to act upon impulse, and then to 
 think ; to originate ruinous measures, and then to endeavour 
 to neutralise them ; to kill the body politic, and then to try to 
 resuscitate it. 
 
 Bright, Consett's ! is thy beach at early mom. — Page 31. 
 
 This bay is in the eastern part of the island. The " stately 
 school" is Codrington College. Its founder designed it for the 
 academical education of those intended for the professions : the 
 Bishop of Barbadoes has endeavoured to restore the original 
 design. In my time it was simply a school ; and here I take 
 leave to record the worth of my valued preceptor, the principal. 
 Of the Rev. Mr. Nicholson his pupils speak but one language — 
 that of love and praise. I was too youug to derive much scholastic 
 advantage from him, but I remember with grateful affection his 
 kindness and care. The river which runs before the college is 
 remarkable for a gaseous spring, in the immediate neighbourhood 
 of which the temperature of the water is such as to furnish what 
 may be called a tepid bath. Colonel Codrington, the munificent 
 founder of the college, deserves a better memorial than my present 
 means of information enable me to furnish. He was, besides, a 
 benefactor of his own college at Oxford. His merit was duly ap- 
 preciated by Addison, who, in his poem written in 1697, on the 
 occasion of the peace, thus speaks of him : — 
 
 Te tamen e mediis, Ductor fortissime, turmis 
 Exere ; tu vitam (si quid mea carmina possunt) 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 99 
 
 Accipies, populique encomia sera futuri, 
 
 Quern varias edoctum artes, studiisque Minervse 
 
 Omnibus ornatum Marti Rhedycina furenti 
 
 Credidit invita, et tanto se jactat alumno. 
 
 Hunc nempe ardorem, atque immensos pectoris aestus 
 
 Non jubar Arctoum, aut nostri penuria coeli, 
 
 Sed plaga torridior, qua sol intentius omnes 
 
 EfTundit radios, totique obnoxia Phoebo 
 
 India progenuit, tenerisque incoxit ab annis 
 
 Virtutem immodicam, et generosae incendia mentis. 
 
 Romantic Scotland. — Page S3. 
 
 A district of Barbadoes so called. It wants the grander fea- 
 tures of the Highland scenery. These are to be found in some of 
 the other islands \ but still, our Scotland presents to us a certain 
 resemblance of the old country, where I have seen many spots that 
 reminded me 
 
 " Of far Barbadoes on the western main." 
 
 The four-o' clocks their shrinking petals close. — Page 40. 
 
 This is the American clock; which is also known as the 
 " marvel of Peru." 
 
 Ah, happy is his lot, from ills secure. — Page 40. 
 
 I am aware that this expression will be deemed by the igno- 
 rant on this side of the water, to be little applicable to the negro. 
 Those who know the condition of the slaves in Barbadoes will 
 admit that it is true. 
 
 One of the most serious charges against the planters, and that 
 
100 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 most boisterously insisted upon by the human Cycloborus of our 
 days, is the decrease among the slaves. In Barbadoes they have 
 increased. In most of the other colonies there has been, of neces- 
 sity, a decrease. When the slave-trade finally ceased, in 1808, 
 there was in most of the islands a great excess of males. In many 
 of them the sexes are not yet equalised. Till this does take place, 
 no increase can be expected. Morality on the part of the females, 
 and a sufficiency of them, are necessary to the increase of any 
 population. The negroes begin to look upon marriage as a sacred 
 tie ; and in a few years the sexes will be equalised. Then, should 
 there be a decrease, and not till then, this charge against the 
 system will deserve attention. The question has been completely 
 set at rest in an excellent letter from Mr. McDonnell to Mr. 
 Fowell Buxton : the arguments are convincing — the facts are 
 unanswerable. But there are some persons of brains so impene- 
 trable, that they will not be convinced, nor will they know when 
 they are answered. Dr. Johnson used to give as a toast, " An 
 insurrection in Jamaica, and success to it!" There are philan- 
 thropists now-a-days who go yet further, and do all they can to 
 occasion insurrections in our colonies, and to secure their success. 
 In what does such philanthropy differ from treason 1 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Unhappy Raleigh ! — Page 47. 
 
 This highly gifted, but profligate adventurer, made a voyage 
 of discovery to Guiana. The scaffold, after a confinement of 
 years in the Tower, was the reward he received for the introduc- 
 tion of the potato and tobacco into the British islands ; the former 
 of which chiefly supports the millions of Ireland, while the latter 
 yields to the annual revenue several millions. 
 
 Till a new England bloomed in beauty here. — Page 48. 
 
 The Barbadians love to call their island " little England," 
 while they always speak of the mother country as " Home." 
 Barbadoes has never belonged to any other power than England. 
 Many of the cavaliers sheltered themselves there after the mur- 
 der of Charles I. From them many of our families are lineally 
 descended. There are no better mothers and wives than the 
 Barbadian women. 
 
 Bounds not the pulse within the negro's vein ? — Page 52. 
 
 Polygamy has now nearly ceased among the slaves ; and 
 the authority of the marriage-sanction is generally recognised by 
 
102 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 them. That man is altogether ignorant of our negro-society who 
 asserts that the negro's life is " loveless, joyless, unendeared." 
 In truth, slavery among them is not that soul-degrading, heart- 
 withering yoke that the pretended friends, but real foes, of " their 
 sable brethren" assert it to be. Cheerfulness, and the enjoyment 
 of the social and domestic affections, without the drawbacks of care 
 and poverty, characterise the condition of the negroes in Barba- 
 does. The system that allows so much happiness cannot be so 
 abominable as it is represented. 
 
 In our green isle no forms depraved are seen, — Page 58. 
 
 Instances of malformation are extremely rare. Scrofula is un- 
 known. It was proposed to a former government to send some of 
 those families who suffer from this vitiation to British Guiana. 
 The factories have not improved the stamina of the unfortunates 
 that work in them. 
 
 The indecent practice of employing men-midwives is not yet 
 in vogue in the West Indies. If a woman is well formed, the 
 natural process of parturition is quite safe. To suppose it other- 
 wise is to reflect on Providence, as having taken greater precau- 
 tion for the safety of the lower animals than for that of the human 
 species. Male accoucheurs can neither improve the delicacy nor 
 the chastity of women. This abominable custom should be dis- 
 countenanced : women, carefully taught, would surely answer the 
 purpose. 
 
 To which renowned Leith a victim fell,'— Page 59. 
 
 Sir James Leith died at Barbadoes of yellow fever. His mili- 
 tary qualities were of the highest order. The Princess Charlotte 
 is reported to have said of him, that he was " the finest gentle- 
 man" she had ever seen. A monosyllabic name is of ill omen for 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 103 
 
 a ruler of Barbadoes. With the exception of Sir Henry Warde, 
 every other person, I believe, with a name of one syllable has died 
 during his government. Sir Lionel Smith must look to himself. 
 
 Schools for the children bless their bishop's eye, — 
 Faith for the living, hope for those that die. — Page 61. 
 
 The first Bishop of Barbadoes arrived at his diocese exactly 
 two hundred years after the settlement of the island. The choice 
 of Dr. Coleridge was most felicitous. A pious Christian, a learned 
 theologian, an excellent preacher, gentle yet dignified, authorita- 
 tive without pretension, energetic without offensive eagerness in 
 the pursuit of his object, — he has done wonders for the moral and 
 spiritual condition of the islanders. Besides the central school, 
 founded by Lord Combermere (whom to name is to praise), which 
 was instituted for the education of poor white boys, and a similar 
 establishment for girls, there are schools of the same kind for the 
 children of colour, and, what is more important still, there are 
 many schools, in toWn and country, for the negro children. 
 
 I believe, in proportion to the population, there are as many 
 sincere Christians in Barbadoes as in England. I appeal to our 
 schools and our charities ; to the life and the death-bed of the pro- 
 fessed Christian ; to the list of offences, minor and capital ; to the 
 testimony of the clergy, and of every respectable individual who 
 has visited the island. The frothy speech of a Cleon is no answer 
 to this challenge. 
 
 Mr. Pinder and Mr. Nurse are exemplary clergymen. Mr. 
 Packer is worthy of all praise. In mentioning these gentlemen I 
 mean no oblique censure on the rest of the clergy, who are, I 
 believe, a highly meritorious body. 
 
 Mr. Chaderton is somewhere in North America. He is one of 
 the most distinguished men the island has produced. With the 
 
104 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 finest imagination and the acutest sensibilities, he has devoted 
 himself, with a martyr-like spirit, to his holy calling. 
 
 The Moravians, and the priests of the Roman church in the 
 French islands, have always been useful and respected. They 
 have laboured to raise the negro character without making the 
 slave dissatisfied with his condition. Unfortunately, many of the 
 missionaries from England have done much harm. I allude to 
 those taken from the canaille, who heretofore, having had a call, 
 have gone to convert their black brethren in the West Indies. 
 Some of these worthies, by their gross misconduct and infamous 
 immoralities, have made missionaries unpopular in the colonies. 
 That there have been excellent men among them is not denied — 
 the fidelity of the eleven did not make less mischievous the trea- 
 chery of Judas. It cannot be supposed that the planters will tole- 
 rate men who preach to their slaves sedition and rebellion. 
 
 Realm of the sun-god ! here his own best boon 
 Is freely given, — Page 64. 
 
 This island has always been remarkable for the excellence of 
 its physicians. It is to be hoped that Dr. Farre, the greatest 
 health-priest of the empire, having been made an interpreter of the 
 mysteries of health and disease, will commit his interpretations to 
 an unperishing record, so as to benefit not only the present gene- 
 ration, but those who shall come after him. The laws are well 
 administered. The two gentlemen mentioned in the text were 
 each of them attorney -general of the island, and conspicuous for 
 their talents and professional knowledge. 
 
 How beautiful is night ! the glorious sky 
 
 Is filled with countless gems — how silently ! — Page 67* 
 
 The nights of the tropics are beautiful beyond description. 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 105 
 
 Venus looks a lesser moon. The whole world of light seems 
 nearer ; and those that are individuated, much larger than they 
 appear in more northern regions, I cannot think the skies of 
 Assyria, or the nights of Babylon, can be preferable to our own. 
 
 But not so tranquil is the brow of night, 
 
 When comes the awful blast of wild affright. — Page 69. 
 
 The hurricane has been often described. There have been 
 three fatal hurricanes in Barbadoes. The first occurred in 1675, 
 the second in 1780, (described by Poyer, in his History of Barba- 
 does), and the third in 1831. The ceiba-tree (silk-cotton) I have 
 mentioned stands in the old churchyard. It has withstood the 
 three hurricanes, and looks as if it has power to withstand as 
 many more. Sir James Lyons, a governor admired and beloved 
 by all classes of the governed, has testified to the admirable traits 
 of patience, fortitude, and benevolence, displayed on the occasion 
 of the last hurricane by the inhabitants. The grateful negroes 
 were loud in their acknowledgments of the kindness and sympa- 
 thy they experienced at the hands of their masters. I know it to 
 be a fact, that ladies have sometimes acted as nurses to sick 
 negroes. 
 
 It is the negro festival.— .P 'age 72. 
 
 Cold must the heart of that man be who can look unmoved 
 upon the sports and festivities of the negroes : they rejoice with 
 no common enjoyment. 
 
 The Libyan dance, as performed by them, though the image is 
 not introduced, confirms Dr. Clarke's notion on the origin of 
 dancing. The Ionian dance is yet displayed in India. The dance 
 round the May-pole is thus spoken of in the Spectator, No. 365 : 
 " It is at this time that we see the young wenches in a country 
 parish dancing round a May -pole, which one of our learned anti- 
 
106 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 quaries supposes to be a relic of a certain pagan worship that I do 
 not think fit to mention." 
 
 The festivals of the negroes present a lively picture of the 
 Saturnalia. It will be remembered that the ancients imagined 
 Saturn and his train to have taken refuge in the fortunate or 
 blessed isles. 
 
 Or Ariadne, when she woke from sleep. — Page 77. 
 
 I cannot deny myself the gratification of inserting here the 
 exquisite picture of Catullus. 64 Carm. 52, 
 
 Namque fluentisono prospectans litore Diae 
 Thesea cedentem celeri cum classe tuetur 
 Indomitos in corde gerens Ariadna furores : 
 Necdum etiam sese, quae visit, visere credit ; 
 Utpote fallaci quae turn primum excita somno 
 Desertam in sola miseram se cernit arena. 
 Immemor at juvenis fugiens pellit vada remis, 
 Irrita ventosae linquens promissa procellae : 
 Quern procul ex alga moestis Minois ocellis, 
 Saxea ut effigies bacchantis prospicit Evoe : 
 Prospicit, et magnis curarum fluctuat undis, 
 Non flavo retinens subtilem vertice mitram, 
 Non contecta levi velatum pectus amictu, 
 Non tereti strophio luctantes vincta papillas; 
 Omnia quae toto delapsa e corpore passim 
 Ipsius ante pedes fluctus salis alludebant. 
 
 The reader is of course familiar with Milton's 
 
 Pair field 
 Of Enna, where Proserpine, gathering flowers, 
 Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis 
 Was gathered. 
 
NOTES TO BARBADOES. 107 
 
 Lust their incentive, Liberty their meed, — Page 78. 
 
 It is well known that one of the chief motives of the negroes to 
 rebellion is a desire to appropriate the white women. Their idea 
 of liberty is to take possession of the property of their masters, and 
 to get slaves to work for them. The jealousies among them, and 
 the efforts of some to reduce others to the condition of being their 
 bondmen, will not better their lot : the great mass of the negroes 
 of St. Domingo, it is known, are in a state of abject slavery ; their 
 condition under the French was much happier. 
 
 Far other fate, far other end was thine, 
 Hispaniola! — Page 78. 
 
 The reader is referred to Mr. Bryan Edward's History of St. 
 Domingo for an account of the horrors of a servile war. The scenes 
 of outrage and atrocity there exhibited were dreadful beyond con- 
 ception. I think if those who are advocates for immediate eman- 
 cipation would read this history, they might be induced to exhibit 
 less confidence in urging their frantic counsels. 
 
 An attempt to force an immediate emancipation on the colonies 
 must lead to their separation from the mother country; or, even 
 supposing no other power be disposed to assist them in defending 
 their rights against the arbitrary acts of the British Government, 
 to a war, in which the English can only conquer by putting arms 
 into the hands of the slaves. The issue in either case will be the 
 loss of the colonies ; and in the meantime, violation with every pos- 
 sible aggravation awaits the women who may fall into the hands of 
 the new freedmen ; and murder, with the utmost refinement of tor- 
 ture, the unhappy men. 
 
 Is a measure fraught with such consequences worthy of Eng- 
 land? 
 
108 NOTES TO BARBADOES. 
 
 He grows for freedom, if 'tis Heaven's decree 
 
 These sons of Canaan shall at length be free. Page 80. 
 
 The vote of the Commons' House settled that slavery was in- 
 consistent with Christianity. Holy writ determines otherwise. 
 See the New Testament, passim. For the allusion in the text, see 
 Genesis ix, 25 — 27. 
 
 My country ! dearest mother ! may the power 
 
 Of Heaven save thee in this disastrous hour ! — Page 82. 
 
 A people rising in a bitter spirit against their rulers — the na- 
 tional church insulted and spoiled — royalty shorn of its lustre — 
 the loss of colonies, and the extinction of institutions which made, 
 and which have long kept the greatness of the nation — the dis- 
 memberment of the empire — a glorious past — a gloomy present, 
 — and a still darker future, — sufficiently justify this expression. 
 
 Great William ! —Page 83. 
 
 His Majesty, the King, in the bright days of his early life, 
 visited and took delight in our beautiful island. His sire, bless- 
 ings on the memory of the good old man ! felt the liveliest interest 
 in his West Indian colonies. He caused the bread-fruit to be 
 conveyed to us, with a view of adding another treasure to our vege- 
 table store : may his royal son take thought of us, that bread be left 
 to us to eat, that the persons of our women be preserved from pro- 
 fanation, and our throats from the knife of the assassin ! 
 
 When impious men insult and trample under foot the laws, and 
 lay godless hands upon the ark, they will not be very scrupulous 
 about the throne and the sceptre. God save the church and the 
 kingf ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
THE LOVER'S LAMENT, 
 
 In JFour ^arts. 
 
 I.-MORNING. 
 
 On heaven's high portal streams a gush of new-born 
 light; 
 
 With golden wings 
 
 The Titan springs ; 
 His flashing chariot gleams, his orb is full in sight. 
 O'er hill and valley, bosky dell, and mountain, 
 On the gray moor, and lake, and sea, and fountain, 
 Pours the rich flood of glory, till the earth 
 Owns through her bounds the day's all-cheering birth. 
 Careering, on he goes ; he mounts the eastern clime, 
 
 And many a voice 
 
 Proclaims, " Rejoice!" 
 While some awake to woes, and some to night-brewed 
 crime. 
 
112 THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Happy, how happy ! they who only wake to praise, 
 
 And thoughts that move 
 
 The tide of love, 
 And find each passing day the happiest of their days. 
 They heed not, care not for the wicked great ; 
 They have not, or if having, prize not state. 
 With truth and innocency they are blest ; 
 By day are happy, and at night have rest ; 
 And when the morn is here, they shake off sleep and 
 rise, 
 
 And through the day, 
 
 They keep away 
 From thoughts and deeds of fear, that shut men from 
 the skies. 
 
 It is the dewy morn ! translucent gems appear 
 
 On every blade 
 
 In copse and glade, 
 And orient pearls adorn the sylvan theatre. 
 Ten thousand voices wake the strain of joy, 
 And love and praise the choristers employ ; 
 Vocal the woods, and groves, and leafy bowers, 
 And odorous shrubs, and herbs, and opening flowers. 
 Joy ! joy ! hail, golden beam ! see gladdened Nature 
 smiles, 
 
 While thou dost shine, 
 
 With love divine, 
 And thy far-flashing gleam the weary heart beguiles. 
 
THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 113 
 
 The shades of night are gone ! through heaven's vast 
 cope remains 
 
 No star but one — 
 
 The regal Sun ! 
 He marches on alone, and all his state maintains. 
 Up on his high career the mighty springs ; 
 The mute worlds listen to his rushing wings ; 
 Rejoicing Nature dons a bridal dress, 
 Earth's doedal bosom flowers with happiness. 
 Joy ! joy ! hail, happy day ! welcome is every where ; 
 
 The good, the bad, 
 
 Alike are glad — 
 Spectres are kept away, and shapes of joy appear. 
 
 The day was bright to me, when by her lover's side, 
 
 In pleasant mood, 
 
 Eudora stood, 
 And looked — so maidenly ! my own affianced bride ! 
 The morning was around us ; blushes yet 
 Mantled the east, and every leaf was wet ; 
 The cheerful linnet and the gentle dove, 
 Gentle in joy, were singing songs of love. 
 The green and glittering grove, the softly sighing 
 stream — 
 
 All things around — 
 
 Each sight and sound — 
 Spake, looked, breathed only love ! and was it but a 
 dream ? 
 
114 THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 
 
 But though my love is gone, and Hope's sweet flowers 
 are dry, 
 
 That hour lives yet ; 
 
 Can I forget 
 I was not then alone, nor cold Eudora's eye ? 
 Vision of beauty ! soon — too soon withdrawn, 
 Still do I love the light of early dawn ; 
 And in thy well-remembered haunts to trace 
 Thy quick, light step — thy living, speaking face ; 
 And ever do I hear the music of thy voice ; 
 
 The morn is thine, 
 
 And thou art mine, 
 And though I drop a tear, my soul doth still rejoice. 
 
 Art thou not ever near ? a form of love and light, 
 
 As on that day 
 
 Of blushing May, 
 At morn I saw thee there, in modest beauty bright. 
 And when the night is past, I hear among 
 Love's leafy homes the birds' delightful song ; 
 And once again is told our mutual vow. 
 I feel, I feel a blessed spirit now 
 Reanimate the scene ; thee death cannot remove ; 
 
 And still doth morn, 
 
 Dead love ! adorn 
 This haunt with fresher green, and therefore morn I love. 
 
THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 115 
 
 IL_NOON. 
 
 High sits the orb of day ; the world is flooded o'er 
 
 With streams of light ; 
 
 While the lone wight 
 Pours forth in simple lay his heart's deep-seated lore. 
 Or else in some o'er-arching rift he sits, — 
 While many a shade of olden pleasure flits 
 In spectral pomp along, — nor marks the sea, 
 One blazing sheet of sun-lit brilliancy, 
 As its clear waters rise, and kiss the pebbly strand. 
 
 And the wreathed spray 
 
 Doth break away, 
 And the sea-breeze comes in sighs, and lovingly to land. 
 
 Or in some ancient wood, or thicket-tangled nook, 
 
 Where never came 
 
 The impious flame, 
 In love with solitude, holds converse with his book. 
 Thence from his shelter peeps upon the glare, 
 While the still kine in shady covert are, 
 And sees, outlooking from his cool retreat, 
 How the world's life is vexed with the heat. 
 The blue roof of the skies without a veil is seen ; 
 
 Nor a leaf is stirred, 
 
 Nor a sound is heard, 
 And happy are the eyes that have a, home of green ! 
 
116 THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Imperious, gorgeous noon ! no veiled effulgence now 
 
 The Titan shews, 
 
 As on he goes, 
 Proud of his favourite June, and opens all his brow. 
 Who then can look upon the sun-god's face ? 
 Who the bright glories of his chariot trace ? 
 The eagle-king alone can wing his way 
 In higher air, and bide the blazing day. 
 The drooping senses faint, and nature seems to sleep, 
 
 As though the soul, 
 
 Which moves the whole, 
 Were locked in strange restraint, or in some prison 
 deep. 
 
 In listless mood I seek some green embowered shade, 
 
 Or sea-side cave 
 
 Washed by the wave, 
 To cool my heated cheek with dew by sea-nymphs 
 
 made. 
 Or under some outspread majestic tree, 
 Whose leafy kingdom best may shelter me ; 
 Or else in some deserted woodman's hut, 
 Me and my sorrows from the glare I shut ; 
 Or veil my heavy eyes, where'er I chance to be, 
 
 Sad and alone ; 
 
 Nor breathe a moan 
 While round me darkling rise the wrecks of memory. 
 
THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 117 
 
 Time was in lady's bower, with odorous coolness blest, 
 
 I spent the noon, 
 
 Nor marked how soon 
 It passed, while near one flower was blooming ; loveliest ! 
 The morning gives thee not, as once it gave ; 
 My beautiful companion ! wild weeds wave 
 Around thy resting-place, and churchyard flowers 
 Are glistering, wet with more than vernal showers — 
 The tears which now I shed — sweetest and holiest I 
 
 And each of them 
 
 A stainless gem 
 In honour of my dead, — falls on her place of rest. 
 
 Dead ! gone ! and I am here I The summer's latest rose 
 
 In vain shall glow ; 
 
 In vain shall blow 
 The earliest of the year which spring on earth bestows. 
 Or summer's heat, or winter's piercing breath 
 Affects me not. She was— is not ; death ! death ! 
 Abhorred, hateful death ! no more for me 
 She lives, moves, speaks. Only a memory, 
 Sad, shadowy, now remains of one so fair and good. 
 
 Eudora died ! 
 
 Can aught betide 
 To stir my sluggish veins, or break my solitude ? 
 
118 THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Seasons may change, but I, unchanged by seasons, see, 
 
 Where'er I rove, 
 
 My buried love ; 
 And, O ! most lovingly her image haunteth me. 
 Of her my steeped senses are all full ; 
 Though dead, her beauty liveth ; and when, dull 
 With gathering films, my eyes shall see no more 
 The present, and my spirit hovers o'er 
 The bridge that separates the living from the dead, 
 
 In glory dight, 
 
 That shape of light 
 Shall guide me through the gates of death new-opened. 
 
 III. — EVENING. 
 
 Soft falls on lake and stream the veil of dewy Eve ; 
 
 The vesper-star 
 
 Is seen afar, 
 While lingers yet the gleam the sun's last blushes leave. 
 Silence is all around, and mute the groves. 
 This is the time the pale enthusiast moves 
 Through each beloved scene ; the churchyard seems 
 Instinct with forms and animated dreams : 
 
THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 119 
 
 The venerable tower, the abbey's ivyed walls, 
 
 The memories 
 
 That now arise, 
 Use their romantic power — my dead Eudora calls I 
 
 I hear the musical low sobbing sound of waters — 
 
 A moaning sigh, 
 
 A strange wild cry, 
 And many a foot-print fall of earth's unearthly daugh- 
 ters — 
 With linked hands they move in graceful choir 
 On earth, in air. I scarcely now respire, 
 While I stand listening to the magic sound 
 Of unseen music. Hark ! above, around, 
 The mystic air steals on— now dies — now comes again ! 
 
 Some dance in the ring, 
 
 While others sing 
 In wondrous unison, obedient to the strain. 
 
 Imagination ! thine to clothe the invisible 
 
 With airy forms. 
 
 What though the worms 
 Have now, Eudora mine — alack, how sad to tell ! — 
 Upon thy fragrant bosom banqueted ; 
 The grave doth lie, Eudora is not dead ! 
 Now, now she leans upon her lover's arm ; 
 Now, now he feels her own peculiar charm, — 
 
120 the lover's lament. 
 
 He hears her soft low voice make music of his name — 
 
 That melting tone, 
 
 All, all her own, 
 Now bids his heart rejoice, and owns a mutual flame. 
 
 How dear the pleasant scene which we at evening 
 roved — 
 
 The sloping hill, 
 
 The murmuring rill, 
 The talk of what had been, the sense how much we 
 
 loved ! 
 How gracefully the maiden moved along ! 
 How thrillingly she. sang her plaintive song ! 
 How blest our silence, when the nightingale 
 Took up the note ! It is an idle tale — 
 A dream of what is gone ; 'tis worse than idleness, 
 
 And yet I must, 
 
 Till I am dust, 
 For her repeat my moan ! I cannot love her less. 
 
 Evening again lets fall its beauty on the wood ; 
 
 The ivyed wall, 
 
 And ruined hall, 
 And dark- gray tower, recall the visionary mood. 
 The sound of dying waters once again 
 Steals on my ear ; a wild sepulchral strain 
 Bursts the chill fastenings of the awful tomb ; 
 Then, with a groan as from her labouring womb, 
 
THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 121 
 
 While come the shades of night and bats are on the 
 wing, 
 The earth doth pour 
 Her hidden store 
 Of phantoms to the light, which they themselves do 
 bring. 
 
 Once I did mock the creed that fashioned forms of air, 
 
 And idle deemed 
 
 All those who dreamed 
 Of phantom seen on steed, or on some ruined stair. 
 But now I know with the invisible 
 A link — a sympathy — a secret spell 
 Entwines the sad realities of life. 
 A warning tells of death, war, coming strife ; 
 A voice long-cherished ties bids us at once dissever — 
 
 We pause and think, 
 
 While on the brink 
 Of some dread precipice, or else we're lost for ever. 
 
 The graves give up their dead ! the loved are seen 
 once more ! 
 
 No mask to fright 
 
 The gay delight 
 Of those who never bled, nor live their sorrows o'er. 
 There are who oft have felt this startling truth, 
 And seen the shapes of early radiant youth 
 
 i 
 
122 the lover's lament. 
 
 In the cold grave concealed ; or rapt from earth 
 
 Have heard angelic harpings : at the birth 
 
 Of Him who bore the stain of hell's malicious scorn, 
 
 Angel and man 
 
 At once began 
 In harmony the strain — " To us a King is born !" 
 
 Sweet-soothing holy Eve ! my saint thou oft restorest ; 
 
 My thoughts are wild, 
 
 And, like a child, 
 I love the toys I leave ; and thou, too, who deplorest, 
 Like me, some dear departed only one, 
 Must know the joy of being left alone 
 In converse with thy loved and lovely dead — 
 Love's witnesses, the stars, above thy head. 
 And are such musings toys, which ought to be thrown by ? 
 
 With flowers they spread 
 
 Life's feverish bed ; — 
 Such musings are my joys, and shall be till I die. 
 
 IV. — NIGHT. 
 
 Hail, venerable Night! mother of dark-winged dreams! 
 
 Whose veiled hour 
 
 Hath wondrous power 
 In bringing shapes to light — what is not, yet what seems. 
 
the lover's lament. 123 
 
 With thy dread presence thronging fancies come, 
 
 Sepulchral solitudes and the loud hum 
 
 Of Babylon ; with thee the still small voice 
 
 Sounds terrible — the sinner has no choice, 
 
 But needs must hear his doom, and blasted see his fate ! 
 
 Hail, solemn Night ! 
 
 But clothe with light 
 Of love my cloistered gloom, my couch irradiate ! 
 
 To sleep and then to dream! when slow with tragic pall 
 
 The Muse appears, 
 
 And thousand fears 
 Dance to the torch-light's gleam, and fill some gorgeous 
 
 hall. 
 Then sleeps the judgment, while the fancy wakes, 
 And airy visions out of nothing makes ; 
 Bids the dim future pass before our eyes, 
 And by-gone days and old solemnities. 
 See ! see ! Eudora smiles ! love brightens on her cheek ; 
 
 Her lip has bloom, 
 
 Her breath perfume ! 
 Fancy, are these thy wiles ? my own Eudora ! speak ! 
 
 The scene is changed to gloom ; the hearse and mourn- 
 ful train 
 
 Pass slowly by ; 
 
 And many a cry 
 Laments her early doom, when all, laments are vain ! 
 
124 the lover's lament. 
 
 Lovely and loved one ! dearest, only dear ! 
 
 Though clad in grave-clothes, yet appear — appear! 
 
 Ah, no ! shut out that vision ! horrible ! 
 
 How horrible ! what once I loved so well 
 
 Is loathsome to my view ! away ! away ! away ! 
 
 Oh ! come not near, 
 
 For now I fear 
 That dark and livid hue, which cannot bide the day. 
 
 Another change appears ; lo ! amaranthine bowers, 
 
 And violet banks, 
 
 Whose ordered ranks 
 Are wet with morn-dropt tears, and dressed by guardian 
 
 hours — 
 Hark ! strains of music break upon the ear, 
 And shapes of glory to the eye appear. 
 Then comes the showery rush of golden wings, 
 And seraph forms, and angel visitings ; 
 And now Eudora smiles ! but, ah ! too bright she seems — 
 
 And yet she loves, 
 
 And onward moves, — 
 Fancy, are these thy wiles ? give me, dear Night, such 
 dreams ! 
 
 Hail, venerable Night ! prophet of future times ! 
 
 Creative power ! 
 
 In whose dark hour 
 There sometime comes delight, and sometime scorching 
 crimes. 
 
the lover's lament. 125 
 
 If ill must be mixed up with seeming good, 
 And what is dark with what is understood ; 
 If fierce extremes of pleasure and of pain 
 Must rend my bosom, rack my aching brain ; 
 Then come with poppies crowned, and weigh my eye- 
 lids down ; 
 
 Lock up each sense 
 
 In innocence ; 
 Let Lethe's stream abound, and wear Oblivion's crown. 
 
 Hail, venerable Night ! mother of dark-winged dreams ! 
 
 Hail and begone ! 
 
 And leave alone 
 Me and myself ! thy light a darksome mirror seems, 
 In which the future, past, and present join, 
 And loves, and hates, and mercies intertwine ; 
 Where all seems true, yet all is false as hell, 
 Whose flickering glare itself is terrible. 
 Back to thy chambers, Night ! visions and dreams, away ! 
 
 Eudora sleeps ; 
 
 The living weeps 
 That vision of delight, that would not, could not stay. 
 
126 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Is it blood ? blood that stains my cruel hand ? 
 
 Whose blood is it ? my brother's ! Abel's blood ? 
 
 Who slew, in Abel, brother — fellow-man, 
 
 The son of his own parents, and the loved 
 
 Of the great Father ? — who but cursed Cain ? 
 
 Earth, air, heaven, and the silent stars, speak out, 
 
 And my own heart cries, " Cain ! the murderer, Cain!" 
 
 No little Abel yet had called him father, 
 
 No gentle spouse, like our sweet mother, yet 
 
 Had dressed his bower. He died in innocence. 
 
 Died ! death ! and what is death ? must I die too ? 
 
 Where, where is Abel ? is his voice, his heart, 
 
 His smile, dead ? is his gentle spirit dead ? 
 
 And is this death ? distasteful, hideous death ! 
 
 But yesterday I was most wretched, sunk 
 
 In the wild surge of a most mad despair ; 
 
 But, ah ! that wretchedness of yesterday 
 
 Was rapturous bliss compared to this day's wo ; 
 
 That wild despair was peace and holy calm 
 
 To the intolerable weight of this to-day. 
 
cain. 127 
 
 The sun looks bloody on my lonely path — 
 
 The gurgling streamlet bubbles up in blood - 
 
 Dark gouts of gore seem dropping from the trees — 
 
 The air becomes a voice, and whispering asks, 
 
 " Where is thy brother, Cain? Cain, where is Abel?" 
 
 Night comes, but brings not sleep as heretofore : 
 
 In dreams and visions of the night I see 
 
 The murdered Abel, and he smiles — still smiles ; 
 
 Would that he frowned ! that smiling look of his 
 
 Makes my heart cold. I rush into the air, 
 
 And the vexed stars look angry, and the moon 
 
 Veils her sad face. Would that I ne'er had been ! 
 
 Would that I ne'er had slain him ! " Blood for blood !" 
 
 From mother earth a voice says, " Blood for blood !" 
 
 The murdered Abel, whom I see in sleep, 
 
 He only frowns not, says not " Blood for blood \" 
 
 But I must go — though blood be on my path. 
 No more the gentle Eve may call me son ; 
 No more the venerable Adam hail, 
 With morning salutation and at eve, 
 His first-born. Never more shall He, who walked 
 Among us, speak to me — except in thunder. 
 While she — the single boon — my tender spouse, 
 Smiles on me, though her eyes are full of tears ; 
 And I must be a father, and my sons 
 Shall learn to curse and execrate their sire. 
 Abel ! my brother ! how I hated thee ! 
 
128 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And yet when I did hate thee most, I loved 
 
 Thee better than I love my hated self. 
 
 Farewell, ye memories of infant peace — 
 
 Farewell, ye scenes of boyhood ! and farewell, 
 
 My father's presence and my mother's love ! 
 
 Farewell, thou cursed scene ! — the sacrifice 
 
 I scorned, and the brother whom I slew. 
 
 Farewell, thou dear religion of my home — 
 
 The spot where Adam blessed me, in his arms 
 
 Receiving Eve's first infant — fatal boon ! 
 
 Where I did grow in rude and vigorous health, 
 
 While yet the germ of nobleness was in me, 
 
 That grew not to the flower, but fell i' the bud, 
 
 Cankered by envy and by hellish spite. 
 
 Welcome despair ! and after weary life 
 
 Is over, welcome dreaded, longed-for death ! 
 
 Blood ever is before me, and no song 
 
 Of morning or of evening bird — no air 
 
 Of fragrance, and no touch of human love — 
 
 Of husband or of father — that shall be — 
 
 Can bring me hope. The fountain of my life 
 
 Is choked with blood, — my brother's, Abel's blood 1 
 
 I have no place of refuge where to flee ; 
 
 The unseen Eye is on the murderer's path ; 
 
 A voice is ever ringing in my ears 
 
 " Where is thy brother, Cain?" and when I arm 
 My hand against myself, the Ever-seeing 
 With his resistless hand inhibits me. 
 
CAIN. 129 
 
 T have no hope, but what I most do fear, 
 And what I hope yet fear I cannot have — 
 The chilling death I brought into the world. 
 Unhappy, wretched, miserable Cain ! 
 I fear the dead, the living, and unseen ; 
 I shrink from her that loves me ; fear to see 
 The life that's in her, that shall smile on me, 
 And call me father, — Abel had no child! 
 I fear the darkness and the light of day — 
 The face of Nature and accusing Earth- — 
 The past that never, never can return — 
 The present, full of horrors and of woes — 
 And that dim future which its shadow throws 
 Of deeper darkness on my present dark. 
 My brother Abel, I am punished ! 
 
130 
 
 NAPOLEON. 
 
 When from the forehead of the dark-browed night, 
 Where shone portentous its ill-omened light — 
 Filling the hearts of men with doubts and fears, 
 Some brilliant comet fades and disappears, 
 The curious eye still gazes— -still is bent 
 On vacancy : so now thy light is spent, 
 Thy race is run; thy dauntless heart is cold, 
 And what was once a hero, now is mould ; 
 A world pursues thy eagle -flight through time, 
 Scared at thy vast sublimity of crime, 
 And scarce believes that thou at length art dead — 
 The vanquisher at last quite vanquished. 
 
 Napoleon was ! how empty is the boast 
 Of those who glitter and who shine the most ! 
 How brief his pomp, his pageantry, and pride ! 
 The imperial demigod in exile died : 
 The thunderbolt of war is spent and still ; 
 The slayer of mankind is peaceable. 
 Thus the terrific water-spout ascends, 
 Swells, threatens, falls, and with the ocean blends ; 
 
NAPOLEON. 131 
 
 Mixed with its parent waters, none can see 
 
 A trace of the sea- column's majesty — 
 
 The wide expanse of ether and of sea 
 
 Presents a face of calm serenity ; 
 
 As though no cloud had hung upon the wave — 
 
 No mariner had found a watery grave,, 
 
132 
 
 LUCRECE. 
 
 At Ardea's siege the Roman army sat ; 
 
 Wine,, mirth, and jest, were in the princely tent, 
 
 Where the young nobles met in festive mood. 
 
 The world's great mistress, yet in infancy, 
 
 Was shooting upward to her giant strength, 
 
 And even then, like cradled Hercules, 
 
 She strangled foemen. Through her swelling veins 
 
 The mingled blood of tribes discordant flowed — 
 
 A turbid, troubled, and tumultuous stream. 
 
 Full of brute vigour, and for greatness born, 
 
 The meanest Roman wrote himself a man ; 
 
 A tyrant swayed the sceptre, and his staff 
 
 Of office was the sword. It seemed as though 
 
 That iron nation should by iron rule 
 
 Be kept subjected. No one yet had dreamed, 
 
 In that new state, of equal rights and laws. 
 
 That evening's mirth at Ardea dashed the throne 
 
 Of Tarquin into ruins, changed the fate 
 
 Of Italy, and gave imperial Rome 
 
 The policy which vanquished and enslaved 
 
LUCRECE. 133 
 
 The prostrate world. Round goes the rapid wheel 
 Of fortune. Tarquin was put down, and Rome 
 Became in turn a Tarquin to the nations. 
 
 It was at Ardea's siege. The mantling wine 
 Bubbled and sparkled in their brimming cups ; 
 They talked of battle and they sung of love — 
 They praised their lady-loves, and every knight 
 With fond devotion boasted of his own ; 
 But loudest in his praise was Collatine. 
 Their mirthful contest urged them to the proof 
 Of female loveliness and virtuous worth. 
 Off at a gallop sped they to their homes — 
 Then wished they had not ; for as ladies will, 
 When their dear lords are absent in the wars, 
 They were mirth-making, all their state thrown by ; 
 Their only care to wing with pleasure's plume 
 Their temporary, weary widowhood. 
 Lucrece, the only home-bird of them all, 
 Was mid her handmaids sitting at the loom ; 
 Her thoughts far, far away on Collatine — 
 Musing on battle and the chance of war, 
 Wishing again to see and clasp him there, 
 Her own beloved, in her own sweet home. 
 Thus found they her, and all with one acclaim 
 Hailed her " discreetest, virtuousest, best," 
 And Sextus Tarquin deemed her loveliest 
 
134 LUCRECE. 
 
 That she was lovely caused his blood to boil 
 With passion's fever ; that she was most chaste 
 Increased its fury. True, his kinsman's wife 
 Claimed of him guardianship — not violence ; 
 True that the hospitable rites had given 
 A sacredness to her Collatian home. 
 But maddened lust respects not persons, views 
 As things indifferent the holiest ties ; 
 And man's corrupted flesh, left to itself, 
 Enacts the monsters of the fabled age. 
 He could not brook the sight of Collatine — 
 The cheerful face of day seemed dark to him ; 
 He found no music in the sounds he loved ; 
 Companionship to him was solitude, 
 And solitude his best companionship — 
 When his hot fancy revelled on the charms 
 He madly doated on. He swore, nor vain 
 His oath, to realise his pictured joys. 
 That oath was welcome to the Stygian gods, 
 And Fate, that orders nations, worked unseen. 
 
 On some pretext — idle or well advised, 
 He cared not — to Collatia rode with speed 
 The recreant knight and most disloyal prince. 
 With the free frankness of a noble dame, 
 And hospitable kindness, she received 
 The rude insulter. Viands, cates, and wines, 
 Were set before him ; then, for feigned rest, 
 
LUCRECE. 135 
 
 He sought his chamber. But he could not rest — 
 
 The impious fog of lust had smothered sleep. 
 
 The stars shone out in brightness ; and the moon — 
 
 The moon that loves such sights — was looking down. 
 
 All nature, animate, inanimate, 
 
 Seemed shut in slumber, save the whispering breeze, 
 
 And the destroyer. To her nuptial bower 
 
 He stole with stealthy paces — as afraid 
 
 To hear his own step, made in lingering doubt. 
 
 His right hand — sworn to knighthood's nobleness — 
 
 Was on his sword ; and with his left he woke 
 
 The sleeping Lucrece. Lawless and profane, 
 
 He knew not a divinity doth dwell 
 
 In virtue's person ; and he mocked the ties 
 
 Which he was bound to keep inviolate. 
 
 " Lucrece, awake ! 'tis Sextus Tarquin calls ! 
 
 Awake, awake I" Oh ! with what anguish she, 
 
 The wildered woman, found herself betrayed ! 
 
 He threatened death ; but she would rather die 
 
 Ten thousand deaths than forfeit all she loved — 
 
 Her virtue and her faith to Collatine. 
 
 He threatened infamy — to slay herself, 
 
 And place by her a slave, whom he would kill, 
 
 And vow he slew them in th' adulterous act. 
 
 This was too much — to be held up to scorn, 
 
 The lewd adulteress, name unknown to Rome ; 
 
 Her sire and husband to be pointed at 
 
 With hissing scorn and contumelious quirks ! — 
 
136 LUCRECE. 
 
 This was too much ; — why pause upon the scene ? 
 
 He triumphed, and obtained his luckless joy ; 
 
 For which he paid the forfeit of his life — 
 
 His father lost a throne — his lordly line 
 
 Their country, pride of place, and towering hopes. 
 
 Was rapture in the joy so fiercely seized — 
 
 Brief, and disastrous ? in the forced embrace, 
 
 The shuddering person, and the loathing mind ? 
 
 Yes ! to the brute — and Tarquin was a brute. 
 
 The gentle touches of a mutual love — 
 
 The murmured tenderness — the heart's caress — 
 
 The modest coyness, and the chaste affection, 
 
 That sanctifies true love's idolatry — 
 
 The purity of woman, and the store 
 
 Of all her sweetnesses, which to be known 
 
 Must be drawn out by gentle patient love ; — 
 
 He knew not, felt not, prized not. As he rode 
 
 To Ardea's camp, right joyous was the prince ; 
 
 Proud as a chief, decked with the richest spoils, 
 
 Victorious lust did homage to himself. 
 
 A gay and happy man he seemed that morn ; 
 
 He thought not of his violated vows, 
 
 Of his lorn victim, and her injured lord : 
 
 He smiled, and smiling took his kinsman's arm, 
 
 And smiled the more at thinking of his nest 
 
 Polluted, and his gentle mate deflowered. 
 
 He dreamed not of the stern collected storm 
 
 A woman's firm resolve was gathering then, 
 
LUCRECE. 137 
 
 To burst in ruin on his hated house. 
 
 The worthy knight was buoyant in his mood, 
 
 Secure from danger, proud of his exploit. 
 
 At her brief earnest bidding, sire and spouse, 
 With chosen friends, attended at her home — 
 No longer home, for of its cherished sweets 
 The ruthless spoiler wantonly had robbed it. 
 Dressed in deep mourning for departed peace 
 And violated virtue, while she hid 
 A dagger in her robe, she welcomed them. 
 Nor tear, nor sob — no violence of grief, 
 Betrayed the outrage ; in majestic state 
 The lady greeted them. Alarmed — and yet 
 They knew not why — they eagerly inquired 
 The purpose of her message. Calm she told 
 Her injuries. " Father ! thou hast no child ; 
 Nor, husband ! thou a wife. The spoiler came, 
 And left his foot-prints — where they should not be : 
 Constrained, I yielded to preserve my fame. 
 Sextus, thy kinsman, was the brutal foe ! 
 And now, that in hereafter times no wife, 
 No Roman wife, shall play the wanton's part, 
 And plead Lucretia's sullied name, — I die !" 
 
 She said, and plunged the dagger in her side. 
 She died, and in her death became immortal ! 
 Then spake the veiled mind of Rome's great patriot — 
 " By this pure blood, most noble lady ! here 
 
138 LUCRECE. 
 
 I vow to Tarquin's race an enmity — 
 To be unchanged by time or circumstance ; 
 And never more shall kings, with my consent, 
 Usurp authority in this our Rome." 
 
 So sware the husband and the weeping sire ; 
 And so Valerius, called Poplicola, 
 The people's patron, counsellor, and friend. 
 That day beheld the sceptre and the throne 
 Cast down, and broken ; and Imperial Rome 
 Marched onward to her proud supremacy. 
 
139 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 The Spring comes forth in glory. Mother Earth , 
 Dressed in a robe of flowers, keeps jubilee ; 
 Aerial Zephyr woos her with a kiss, 
 And falls asleep upon her odorous breast. 
 From that blest consummation she impregned 
 Conceives a myriad of sweetnesses, 
 Which being born, exhale themselves and die. 
 Through all her veins life for the living flows, 
 And from her bosom soon is seen to swarm 
 Her glorious progeny. Around her couch, 
 While she keeps state, the gentle Naiads throngs 
 Cooling her bosom with the fountain-dew. 
 Thither resort the Dryads, and the Fays 
 Of later lineage, and the companie 
 Of elemental princedoms. Beauteous queen I 
 Gracious and graceful, and most bountiful ! 
 Her breath wafts gladness to the sorrowful ; 
 Her modest garniture doth soothe the eye ; 
 And her full bosom teems with aliment 
 For the innumerable numbers born to her. 
 
140 SPRING. 
 
 Matron most chaste ! Dear Mother ! we rejoice 
 To see thee in thy many-coloured dress ; 
 And bow our forms upon thy lively green, 
 And touch thee with a reverential kiss. 
 
141 
 
 NOBILITY. 
 
 What is Nobility ? The herald's praise, 
 
 The majesty of old ancestral halls, 
 
 The blood of heroes, statesmen long since dead, 
 
 Mixed in the lapse of ages with the stream 
 
 Of moral, intellectual nothingness? 
 
 Consists it in the gorgeous coronet, 
 
 The robe of state, the fickle smile of princes, 
 
 Or the time-honoured glory of a name ? 
 
 He is the noble, who in virtue's path, 
 
 With simple wisdom, shews himself a man ; 
 
 Who values his long line of ancestors, 
 
 But values them for virtues still his own ; 
 
 Or, if of no high lineage, feels within 
 
 His inmost heart the stirring consciousness, 
 
 That he is loftier than the common herd ; 
 
 That he has impulses and earnest power 
 
 To win and wear a greatness all his own. 
 
 The modern Hannibal, beneath the shadow 
 
 Of the time-defying pyramids, felt this ; 
 
 This felt imprisoned Tasso ; this the sage, 
 
142 NOBILITY. 
 
 Who in cold scorn of his neglectful age, 
 Looked to far-off posterity for fame ; 
 This felt the blind old poet, when he sung 
 The loves of our first parents and their fall : 
 And thus feel all who know themselves to be 
 Above, beyond the reach of common men. 
 What though they live and die without a name, 
 By fate or fortune doomed to be obscure ? 
 The consciousness of power is nobleness, — 
 Of virtue and of wisdom, and of sweet 
 Communings with the visible bright world. 
 Nobility is inborn ; it bespeaks 
 Its origin, and unadulterate 
 It flows in mellow beauty from the throne 
 Of truth immortal. It ennobleth nobles, 
 And makes the rich still richer ; gives a grace 
 To beauty, and a brightness, not their own, 
 To thrones and sceptres. Who has in himself 
 This faculty, needs not the herald's voice ; 
 He bears his patent sealed upon his brow. 
 Nobility of soul is nobleness ; 
 The fixed purpose of a worthy life, 
 Religion, justice, purity, and faith, 
 Beget, rear, nourish true nobility. 
 
143 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF SIMONIDES. 
 
 The rude wind hurtled o'er the brazen chest ; 
 
 A solemn gloom the storm-tossed waves oppressed. 
 
 Unhappy Danae, confused with fears, 
 
 Sank drooping down, — her cheek all wet with tears, 
 
 While round her boy she threw her mother-arms, 
 
 And murmuring said : — 
 
 " What grief — what fatal harms 
 Attend me ever ! thou my boy 
 Enjoyest holy childhood's joy, 
 Sleeping the nursling's happy sleep, 
 While I, thy mother, watch and weep. 
 The gloom of the unlighted night — 
 Our brazen prison, where delight 
 Comes never — the resounding wave — 
 The winds' fierce voices — how they rave ! — 
 Defraud not thee, my boy ! of sleep ; 
 While shade thy face thy sunny tresses, 
 In rich luxuriance clustering deep 
 O'er that fair brow thy mother blesses ; 
 
144 FROM THE GREEK OF SIMONIDES. 
 
 And while the purple's glowing pride 
 Thy beauty-breathing limbs doth hide, 
 Thou wouldst not heed, it* Heaven's decree 
 These dangers, dangers meant for thee. 
 Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep ; 
 Sleep thou, immeasurable deep ! 
 And sleep the fate, that haunts me still, 
 My own interminable ill ! 
 O let some change appear from thee, 
 Jove, father Jove ! to comfort me ! 
 But if too bold the woman's prayer, 
 Pardon the mother's wild despair ; 
 The sounds my lips in sorrow make, 
 Forgive them for the infant's sake. 
 
145 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER. 
 
 Sweet Heliodora ! to the shades below, 
 To thee, these relics of my love I send — 
 Of love and fond regrets that never end — 
 
 Vain monument ! my tears in sorrow flow ; 
 
 Tears, bitter tears ! I on thy tomb bestow ; 
 
 To thy dear love and living memory true. 
 
 Vain homage to the dead ! I still renew 
 
 My plaint, my one unutterable wo. 
 
 Wo ! wo ! where is my lovely blossom ? where ? 
 Hades hath seized it — seized it ; she, O, she ! 
 
 My beautiful, ta'en in her prime, lies there — 
 Lies in the dust. All-nurturing Earth ! to thee 
 
 I suppliant bend ; with all a mother's care, 
 Let her enfolded in thy bosom be. 
 
146 
 
 XERXES. 
 
 We are informed by Herodotus, that Xerxes visited the ruins 
 of Troy. 
 
 Was it here that Ilium stood ? 
 Here reigned Priam great and good ? 
 Here did glorious Hector fall ? 
 Was it here war's carnival 
 Haughty Greece, victorious, kept, 
 While their lovely captives wept ? 
 Was it here that Greece triumphed ? 
 Here that vanquished Asia bled ? 
 O that now those spirits brave, 
 Whom their valour could not save, 
 Would that they, reanimate, 
 Could reverse the work of fate, 
 And behold Laconia's ruin, 
 Smoking Athens, Thebes' undoing ! 
 But, alas ! this may not be, 
 And no Trojan goes with me, 
 To behold the Grecian die, 
 Cursing Asia's victory. 
 
 On, my martial myriads ! on, 
 Props and pride of Xerxes' throne. 
 
XERXES. 147 
 
 See the Trojan plains before us ! 
 
 Hear the Trojan ghosts implore us ! — ■ 
 
 " Extirpate those impious foes; 
 
 Leave not one to tell our woes ! " 
 
 I have sworn ; it must be so ; 
 
 Greece must fall, and Athens know, 
 
 In her peoples' dying groan, 
 
 Ancient Ilium's doom her own. 
 
 Yet I mourn to think that they, 
 
 Who now marshal me the way — 
 
 The victors, like the vanquished, 
 
 Shall in turn be subjected. 
 
 Greece must fall, and Xerxes too ! 
 
 Of the myriads now in view, 
 
 In a hundred years, not one 
 
 Shall bow the knee to Xerxes' throne ; 
 
 And myself no throne shall have, — 
 
 My house the tomb — my bed the grave ! 
 
148 
 
 THE GUINEA MAID. 
 
 This ballad is founded on a tale " ower-true." The unhappy 
 victim of treachery, "now in the sere and yellow leaf," yet 
 lives on one of the river estates in Guiana. The wretch 
 was an Englishman. He lately died at a village in the 
 same colony. The consequences of this cruel act pursued 
 him through life. He lived despised and shunned, and died 
 unmourned and unregretted. 
 
 A captive in the scorching clime 
 
 Of distant Africa ; 
 
 A son of rapine and of crime, 
 
 Condemned, in fetters lay. 
 
 A native chief, inured to blood, 
 
 Was master of his fate ; 
 
 The wretch in vain for mercy sued, 
 
 And wept disconsolate. 
 
 While greater scorn the savage moved, 
 To see the stranger quail, 
 His gentler daughter saw and loved ; 
 With her his tears prevail. 
 
THE GUINEA MAID. 149 
 
 She wept, because she saw him weep ; 
 She mourned to his lament ; 
 How could she think in peace to sleep, 
 While he despairing went ? 
 
 She knew that when the morn should rise, 
 
 Time would be lost to him ; 
 
 And at the thought her gentle eyes 
 
 With grief and tears are dim. 
 
 Tis sad to think that man should take " 
 
 The life he cannot give ; 
 
 And his brief span yet shorter make 
 
 Who has not long to live. 
 
 But love that maiden pity taught, 
 
 Or pity led to love ; 
 
 Impelled by both, with zeal she sought 
 
 Her father's will to move : 
 
 And though he was an African — 
 
 A savage in his wild, 
 
 The chief, the savage, and the man, 
 
 Could not resist his child. 
 
 " Though of the cursed race he be," 
 (The maiden might have said), 
 " Who come across the dangerous sea, 
 To drive their horrid trade ; 
 
150 THE GUINEA MAID. 
 
 Now that his freedom he hath found, 
 He'll love and pity me, 
 Who pitied him, when he was bound — 
 Whose love has set him free." 
 
 His child the yielding chieftain gave 
 
 To him she fondly loved ; 
 
 With him she went across the wave, 
 
 By every risk unmoved. 
 
 Weeping, she saw that shore recede 
 
 She never more should see, 
 
 But still her bosom did not bleed — 
 
 " Is he not still with me ?" 
 
 Oh ! could he make that bosom bleed, 
 
 Or wound her peace in thought ? 
 
 She leaned upon a broken reed — 
 
 Alas ! he loved her not. 
 
 The white man was a sordid thief — 
 
 He bartered men for gold ; 
 
 He never wept for other's grief — 
 
 His heart was cold — how cold ! 
 
 Where far Barbadoes smiles upon 
 The beautiful blue sea, 
 The white man takes that gentle one 
 To chains and slavery. 
 
THE GUINEA MAID. 151 
 
 The handmaids whom her father gave 
 With eager haste he sold ; 
 Alas ! she was herself a slave — 
 He bartered her for gold ! 
 
 Oh ! who can paint her awful grief 
 
 Her wild and wildering wail ; 
 
 The wo that could not hope relief — 
 
 Deep passion's furious gale ? 
 
 And was there none to break her chain, 
 
 Her ransomer to be — 
 
 To send that mourner home again, 
 
 To set that captive free ? 
 
 There was not one, and yet she lives 
 A mean and lowly slave ; 
 But in her heart the wretch forgives, 
 Who brought her o'er the wave. 
 The willing slave of human power, 
 While heaven her thoughts employs, 
 May hers, e'en at this latest hour, 
 Be brighter hopes and joys ! 
 
 So may her life of sorrow be 
 The dawn of purer skies ; 
 The way to immortality, 
 And opening paradise ! 
 
152 THE GUINEA MAID. 
 
 Then shall the captive be set free, 
 The bound shall have release ; 
 The slave enjoy true liberty, 
 The mourner be at peace. 
 
153 
 
 AFRICAN DIRGE 
 
 The Africans in our colonies used to believe that their spirits 
 passed, immediately after death, to their native country. 
 They are now taught to believe in a better country, and a 
 more enduring home for those who die in the faith. The 
 African race were less happy than their descendants. Slavery 
 has now ceased, in most of our colonies, to be that cruel 
 system which made death desirable and life intolerable. I 
 say most of our colonies ; for though there has been a con- 
 siderable improvement in the condition of the negroes in 
 all, there are yet, in one or two, instances of cruelty and 
 oppression occurring, now and then, which cast a blot on the 
 character of the islands. 
 
 O, why should we the dead deplore, 
 Who bids us now " farewell ; " 
 
 Since he has gone to Guinea's shore, 
 For ever there to dwell ? 
 
 Now, underneath the village-tree, 
 That dear familiar place, 
 
 He breathes the air of liberty, 
 Mid his departed race. 
 
154 AFRICAN DIRGE. 
 
 Why should we mourn for him who lives 
 
 Amid the blessed blest ? 
 It is alone the living grieves — 
 
 The dead enjoys his rest. 
 
 Brother ! remember us, as we 
 Thus hail thy happy flight ; 
 
 Brother ! we soon shall follow thee — 
 Till then a brief good night ! 
 
155 
 
 WHILE OTHERS SING THE WARRIOR'S PRAISE. 
 
 While others sing; the warrior's praise, 
 And glorious feats of other days ; 
 The present occupies my verse, 
 And I a maiden's praise rehearse. 
 It is not that her eyes are bright, 
 Beaming with soft and radiant light, 
 Although no brighter eyes there be — 
 None softer — when she looks on me ; 
 It is not that her cheek is fair 
 And youth's rich blood is mantling there, 
 Although no fairer cheek there be — 
 None brighter — when she turns to me ; 
 It is not that her glowing lip 
 Has nectar bees might love to sip, 
 Although no richer lips there be — 
 None sweeter — when she kisses me ; 
 It is not for her flowing hair, 
 Which she doth braid with so much care, 
 Although no head is better set, 
 None worthier of a coronet ; 
 
156 WHILE OTHERS SING THE WARRIOR'S PRAISE. 
 
 It is not that her voice is sweet, 
 
 As whispered sighs when lovers meet ; 
 
 It is not that the stream of song 
 
 Flows sweetly from her lips along, 
 
 Although no sweeter voice there be — 
 
 None softer — when she sings for me ; 
 
 It is not that proportions fair 
 
 Attune her form, and grace her air, 
 
 Although no finer form there be — 
 
 More graceful — when she walks with me; — 
 
 O, no ! I love her gentle mind, 
 
 Tender and simple, yet refined ; 
 
 I love the modesty that speaks 
 
 In rosy blushes on her cheeks ; 
 
 I love her that her thoughts ascend 
 
 To things above, and never bend 
 
 To idle passions, as they pass 
 
 Over the false world's polished glass ; 
 
 And most I love that, though she be 
 
 Beyond my hopes — she loveth me. 
 
157 
 
 WHAT IS A SIGH? 
 
 A sigh is the mourner's expression, 
 And often the herald of tears ; 
 
 A sigh is the lover's confession, 
 When the loved object appears. 
 
 A sigh is the delicate breathing 
 
 Of the unavowed, unspoken feeling ; 
 
 While Hope her gay garland is wreathing, 
 And fancy the future revealing. 
 
 What wonder then is it I sigh, 
 
 When I have no thought but of thee, 
 
 Whilst thou, pretty querist, art nigh, 
 And smilest so sweetly on me ? 
 
158 
 
 FAR AWAY, FAR AWAY! 
 
 Far away, far away ! my love lies sleeping, 
 Nor heeds the sorrow of me mourning ; 
 
 While I , alack ! spend all the night in weeping, 
 And think in vain on his returning. 
 
 Each night he was to look upon the west, 
 And, as the sun sets, think of me ; 
 
 But, ah ! he has forgot the faithful breast 
 That shrines his form — too faithfully ! 
 
 Another love he is deceiving now, 
 And talks to her of memory's token ; 
 
 But he will mourn me and his changeful vow, 
 When he hears my heart was broken. 
 
159 
 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 I asked thee for a lock of hair ; 
 
 Twas given, — then taken back from me ; 
 Caprice but made thee seem more fair, 
 In vain I struggle to be free. 
 
 Think not by frowns to check my love, — - 
 By scorn to set thy captive free ; 
 
 For even frowns thy charms improve, 
 And scorn looks beautiful in thee. 
 
160 
 
 SWEET IS THE BREATH OF SPRING. 
 
 Sweet is the breath of spring to those 
 Who love not winter's cheerless snows ; 
 Sweet is the murmur of the bee, 
 The bird's untutored melody; 
 But sweeter far the bosky dell, 
 Where love's delicious memories dwell. 
 
 Sweet is the hour of dewy eve, 
 When lovers tremble and believe ; 
 Sweet is the odour and the hue 
 Of flowers impearled with morning dew ; 
 But sweeter far a girl I know, — 
 The little girl that loves me so. 
 
 Yes ! by the unforgotten grace 
 
 That lightened o'er her speaking face ; 
 
 By her sweet smile when last we met, — 
 
 I never, never can forget, 
 
 In youth or age, in weal or wo, 
 
 The little girl that loves me so. 
 
161 
 
 SWEET IS THE VOICE OF BIRDS. 
 
 Sweet is the voice of birds when Spring 
 
 Invites their melody ; 
 Sweet is the gentle murmuring 
 
 Of the industrious bee. 
 
 Sweet is the odour of the rose, 
 
 Or scented jessamine ; 
 Instinct with sweetness thus she glows — 
 
 My own sweet Geraldine ! 
 
 Sweet is the walk o'er hill and dale 
 
 In this gay vernal prime ; 
 When youth bids fairy visions hail, 
 
 And mocks at fleeting time. 
 
 Sweet is each hue that courts the eye 
 
 Of Nature's face divine ; 
 But what so sweet as true love's sigh — 
 
 The sigh of Geraldine ? 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 GENTLE RIVER ! FLOW ALONG. 
 
 Gentle river ! flow along, 
 While upon thy banks I sing ; 
 
 Gentle river ! hear my song, 
 Softly, sadly murmuring. 
 
 Gentle river! on thy bank 
 Love, insidious, won my ear ; 
 
 Here young Henry's sighs I drank - 
 Gentle river ! hence my tear. 
 
 Gentle river ! drink my tears ; 
 
 Gentle river ! hear my sighs ; 
 For no longer Henry hears, 
 
 While his love forsaken dies. 
 
163 
 
 THE VIOLET GROWS IN THE VALE, 
 
 The violet grows in the vale, 
 Unseen in her opening bloom ; 
 
 Secure from the boisterous gale. 
 And safe from the violent doom. 
 
 Nor useless it wasteth its bloom ; 
 
 Nor worthless it cumbers the ground ; 
 But modestly breathes its perfume, 
 
 And spreads all its sweetness around. 
 
 Thus Charity dwells on the earth, 
 
 Best pleased that it blossoms unknown ; 
 
 While it blesses the place of its birth, 
 And glows in a light of its own. 
 
164 
 
 OH ! NEVER IN HALL OR IN BOWER. 
 
 Oh ! never in hall or in bower 
 Shall lover make vow to thee ; 
 
 For unprized is the fairest flower, 
 When torn from its parent tree. 
 
 It may bloom for an hour or day, 
 When worn on the breast of the fair ; 
 
 But soon must its leaves fall away, 
 Though twined in the virgin's hair. 
 
 So thou, that art fallen and torn 
 
 From the home of thy modest truth, 
 
 Art doomed but to pine and mourn, 
 And to perish in early youth. 
 
 No sister will weep over thee — 
 No maiden shall deck thy bier ; 
 
 Nor thy grave, nor its shrouding tree, 
 Have the dew of a single tear. 
 
oh! never in hall or in bower. 165 
 
 But if, with a true heart's sorrow, 
 
 Thou moumest thy sins that are past, 
 
 Oh, bright is the Magdalen's morrow, 
 When death shews her mercy at last. 
 
166 
 
 WHEN THE HEART THAT ONCE ADORED THEE. 
 
 When the heart that once adored thee, 
 Breaketh from its nook of clay, 
 
 And the lip that once implored thee, 
 Like a lily, fades away ; 
 
 When the soul, that lives within him, 
 
 Passes from its tenement ; 
 W^ill the thought how thou didst win him 
 
 To thy proud heart give content ? 
 
 Believe it not ; for every morning 
 Thou with heavy eyelid wakest, 
 
 Thou shalt wish for the returning 
 Of the life which now thou takest. 
 
 Then to his lonely turf-mound often 
 Thou shalt wend in bitter wo ; 
 
 And, when tears thy anguish soften, 
 Bless the thought that bids them flow. 
 
WHEN THE HEART THAT ONCE ADORED THEE. 167 
 
 Then thy heart, subdued and broken, 
 Shall by death's cold dart be riven ; 
 
 And thy latest sigh be token 
 Of thy love for him in heaven. 
 
168 
 
 HEART OF IRON ! CANST THOU FEEL 1 
 
 Heart of iron ! canst thou feel ? 
 
 Selfish spoiler ! 'twas thy doing ; 
 Look on virtue's broken seal, 
 
 On confiding beauty's ruin. 
 
 She was fair and knew not sin — 
 She could boast a spotless name ; 
 
 Thine it was her heart to win, 
 
 Thine to break that heart with shame ! 
 
 Vile seducer ! thou dost know 
 All the snares thy art suggested ; 
 
 Thou couldst rack the soul with wo, 
 That on thee so fondly rested. 
 
 Hapless parents ! mourn your daughter, 
 Hapless that ye pardoned not ; 
 
 Lo ! she floats upon the water, — 
 Victim of a villain's plot. 
 
HEART OF IRON ! CANST THOU FEEL? 169 
 
 But for thee, fiend unrelenting ! 
 
 Who couldst trample on thy prey — 
 Who couldst mock at her lamenting, 
 
 And betray her shame to day — 
 
 Who couldst sordidly withhold 
 
 Sin's dear wages, oft implored — 
 Who couldst clutch thy darling gold, 
 
 Though thy hand was on a hoard ; 
 
 O too base, too vile a thing 
 
 For the common terms of shame ; — 
 
 Her dying curse has left a sting — 
 Death is not an empty name 
 
170 
 
 CAN PRISON-BARS OR DUNGEON- WALLS. 
 
 Can prison-bars or dungeon-walls 
 
 Oppress the fearless mind ? 
 When on our path a shadow falls, 
 
 Must we, perforce, be blind ? 
 
 The mind sees, by its own pure light, 
 
 When all is dark around ; 
 In bolts or bars no dread affright 
 
 By the true man is found. 
 
 Fortune may frown, and Fate may lower - 
 
 The brave they cannot mate ; 
 For he is out of Fortune's power — 
 
 Beyond the reach of Fate. 
 
 Though bold bad men may tyrannise, 
 
 And trample innocence, 
 They are before the eternal eyes 
 
 Of watchful Providence. 
 
CAN PRISON-BARS OR DUNGEON-WALLS. 171 
 
 He for wise reasons may permit 
 
 The triumph of the bad ; 
 And if the Highest suffer it — 
 
 Why should the good be sad ? 
 
 The future soon will make all even, 
 
 And fortune's wrongs retrieve ; 
 The patient good have store in heaven — 
 
 Where none that enter grieve. 
 
 Happy are they, the early wise, 
 
 Who shun the path of sin ; 
 For whom heaven's portal open flies, 
 
 And Mercy lets them in. 
 
172 
 
 HIGH IN STATE THE MAIDEN SITS. 
 
 High in state the maiden sits, 
 Lovely in her pride of place ; 
 
 O'er her features pleasure flits, 
 And she is a breathing grace. 
 
 But while music floats around, 
 In her proud and ancient hall — 
 
 While all sounds and sights abound 
 That can grace her festival ; 
 
 Though the titled and the fair 
 
 Court her smile and woo her mood, 
 
 Her's no happy fancies are, 
 
 And in vain her smile is wooed. 
 
 Pleasure flits upon her brow, 
 
 But it is an April gleam ; 
 Triumph lights her bright cheek now, 
 
 But it is a passing dream. 
 
HIGH IN STATE THE MAIDEN SITS. 17^ 
 
 Moments fly, and all are gone — 
 
 She has plucked a faded flower ; 
 And she feels herself alone, 
 
 Weeping in her silent bower. 
 
 Titled, wealthy, young, and fair, 
 
 Can that maiden hapless be ? 
 In the deep her memories are, 
 
 Buried in the envious sea. 
 
 Thrice has summer blessed the land 
 
 Since her willing troth she gave ; 
 Twice has winter swept the strand, 
 
 Since he sunk beneath the wave. 
 
 He to whom her heart was given, 
 With whose being hers was blent, 
 
 Has his resting-place in heaven, 
 And her heart — his monument. 
 
174 
 
 HERE IN THY LAST BED SLEEP, THOU 
 LONE ONE ! 
 
 Here in thy last bed sleep, thou lone one ! 
 
 Though a cold it is a blest one ; 
 Why for this resting-place should we bemoan one, 
 
 Who never in life possessed one ? 
 
 The world, poor outcast ! wrought thee much sorrow ; 
 
 Thy cheek ne'er felt the flush of delight ; 
 Shall we mourn, then, the dawn of thy morrow, 
 
 That waits for thee after Death's long night ? 
 
 Sleep on ! sleep on ! earth's weary sojourner ; 
 
 Thou at length hast reached thy happy goal ; 
 No longer — no longer shalt thou be a mourner, 
 
 But the light of love shall gladden thy soul. 
 
175 
 
 DUTCH WAR-SONG. 
 
 On to the battle, Batavi ! 
 
 In the air let your banner go free ; 
 With shouts let the welkin resound, 
 
 With the psean of liberty ! 
 
 Not the spurious freedom of slaves, 
 W~ho yesterday brake from their chain ; 
 
 Who vaunt them of deeds yet undone, 
 Are heroes, and then — slaves again ! 
 
 Not such is the freedom that stirs 
 
 Your women, your children, your men ; 
 
 Which bursts in one shout through the land, 
 " For our rights, Oranja Boven !" 
 
 But yours is the spirit that yields 
 Due honour where honour is due ; 
 
 Your laws, and your king, and your God, 
 Have not found any treason in you. 
 
176 DUTCH WAR-SONG. 
 
 Your fathers before you were men — 
 Their valour is written in story ; 
 
 Duke Alva, who came to subdue, 
 Left them — not fetters, but glory. 
 
 Batavia ! cradle of heroes ! 
 
 Blest place, where the ark hath long lain ; 
 Shall the rebel prevail over thee, 
 
 Thee the spawn of the infidel stain ? 
 
 His arm is not shortened to save, 
 
 In whom your brave fathers did trust ; 
 
 To the battle, ye sons of the brave ! 
 The God whom ye call on is just ! 
 
 A shout for the noble William, 
 And a shout for his princely son ! 
 
 Let the infidel braggarts come on, 
 Their battle is yet to be won. 
 
 On to the battle, Batavi ! 
 
 In the air let your banner go free ; 
 With shouts let the welkin resound, 
 
 With the poean of liberty ! 
 
177 
 
 MARION ! MARION ! COME TO THE WINDOW. 
 
 Marion ! Marion ! come to the window — 
 The stars are all out, and thy true-love waits ; 
 
 In the night-air the breeze only whispers — 
 No hound 's in the hall — no dog at the gates. 
 
 Marion ! Marion ! all is now ready — 
 
 It is the tryste time — come, keep you your tryste ; 
 Hark ! the boys whistle ; the steeds are impatient ; 
 
 We shall be wed, love ! before you are missed. 
 
 Here, here is the ladder ; come down, my sweet love ! 
 
 My angel of blessing, come down without fear ; 
 Why tremblest thou, sweet ! like a dove waked from 
 slumber ? 
 
 The stars are above us— thy true-love is near. 
 
 Shine on, ye bright stars ! why, moon, dost thou linger ! 
 
 Behold even now her shade on the mountain ; 
 See, see ! she shines out with a soft, holy splendour ; 
 
 And now see the flash of the glittering fountain ! 
 n 
 
178 MARION, MARION, COME TO THE WINDOW. 
 
 Away, love ! away, love ! thy steed is the fleetest 
 And gentlest that ever bore maiden from home ; 
 
 On, on ! my beloved ! and dry up that tear-shower — 
 The night is now past, and the morning is come. 
 
 See, see, my beloved ! the hall of my fathers ! 
 
 The priest and my sister are now at the door ; 
 Come down to my arms, lovely hope of the future, — - 
 
 At last have we met, love ! to part — never more ! 
 
179 
 
 LOOK ON THE FLOWER OF THE FIELD. 
 
 Look on the flower of the field, 
 The simple yellow primrose ; 
 
 Say, what pleasure does it yield 
 To the stream whereby it grows ? 
 
 Look upon the daisied mead, 
 Where the tiny elves have been ; 
 
 Dost thou any pleasure read 
 In the sweet face of the green ? 
 
 Look upon the stars at night, 
 When a frost is in the air ; 
 
 Does the ether feel delight 
 
 From the gems that sparkle there ? 
 
 No ! there must be consciousness, 
 And an indwelling sense ; 
 
 The mystic charm to express, 
 And feel the hid influence. 
 
180 LOOK ON THE FLOWER OF THE FIELD. 
 
 It is mind that discerns it, 
 
 It is feeling enjoys it ; 
 It is piety learns it, 
 
 It is love that employs it. 
 
 By the mind we see the outline 
 
 Of a beauty immortal ; 
 The sweet primrose is a shrine — 
 
 Stars are lights to heaven's portal. 
 
 In our bosoms deep feeling 
 Has a chord ever moving, — 
 
 A quick touch- stone, revealing 
 To the heart what's worth loving. 
 
 White-robed Faith takes her station 
 By our side, when we wake her ; 
 
 And shews, with exultation, 
 In his works the great Maker. 
 
 Dewy Love makes still sweeter 
 Holy Nature's sweet face ; 
 
 With due reverence we greet her, 
 And treasure up every grace. 
 
 O ! the bliss and the glory 
 Of the wisdom that will rise 
 
 From this low dormitory 
 
 To its true home in the skies ! 
 
181 
 
 HOME. 
 
 The exile in a foreign land, 
 
 Wherever he may chance to roam — 
 In every vale, on every strand, 
 
 Thinks of his own far distant home. 
 
 Though in a purer clime he be, 
 And shelters in a princely dome, 
 
 His heart is wandering o'er the sea — 
 It is not home — his own sweet home ! 
 
 There nestle all the joys that spring 
 From holy Nature's dearest ties ; 
 
 The bird forgets its mother's wing, — 
 His, man forgets not till he dies. 
 
 The father's dear approving smile ; 
 
 The tender sister's glowing love ; 
 The household service, free from guile, — 
 
 Are ever felt by those who rove. 
 
182 HOME. 
 
 The wanderer returns again, 
 
 The home-sick seeks his early nest ; 
 
 His gouty sire forgets his pain — 
 His mother clasps him to her breast. 
 
 His sister has become a bride ; 
 
 He tells his grief to Ellen's ear — 
 His sister's place is now supplied ; 
 
 He says, and Ellen smiles to hear : — 
 
 " O, who would barter joys like these 
 For any that the world can give ? 
 
 Reason my heart from folly frees, 
 
 And Love has taught me how to live." 
 
183 
 
 THRENODIES. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Whether enthroned on the purple cloud, 
 
 That hangs o'er Dian's shadowy fane, 
 
 Thou chantest to the angel crowd 
 
 Thy love-inspiring strain ; 
 
 Or warblest to the heaven's own lyre 
 
 Thy hymns of praise ; 
 
 Or with Hesper's pensive choir 
 
 Thou roamest through the amaranthine maze, 
 
 And haply gatherest 
 
 The flowers which used on earth to please the best ; 
 
 Still may thy spirit, mid the joys 
 
 Thou knowest, from thy immortal home — 
 
 The spicy bower of Eden — come, 
 
 To comfort those who air of sorrow breathe, 
 
 And sanctify those cherished ties, 
 
 Which soon, though broken by the arm of death, 
 
 Shall be renewed in paradise. 
 
184 THRENODIES. 
 
 Oh, thou most dear to all who knew thee ! 
 So sweet thy unblown loveliness, 
 That even Death, who envious slew thee, 
 Struck gently not to make it less. 
 O, blossom fair in life, 
 So pleasant to the eye ! 
 Was it because thy gentle spirit shrunk 
 From conflict with the tempest's strife, 
 That thou so early from the parent trunk 
 By the rude arm of Death wert torn, 
 And on the wing of angel borne 
 To that blest land, where never sigh 
 Heaves the sad breast, nor tear-drop dims the eye ? 
 Perchance the searching eye of Heaven 
 Saw many a darkling cloud o'erhang thy fate, 
 And Everlasting Goodness pitied thee ; — 
 The death-commissioned bolt was driven, 
 And thou art blest ! 
 
 But wounded love rebuked the will of Heaven — 
 Not envied thee thy blissful state, 
 But grieved that thou no more shouldst be 
 Of earth the angel guest. 
 
 Rash mourner, cease ! for at the noon of night 
 The sainted spirit hovers near ; 
 The future decks in visions of delight, 
 And steals from love's full eye the sorrow-feeding tear. 
 
THRENODIES. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sweet northern flower ! in evil day 
 Transplanted to a fervid clime ; 
 
 Young bud of beauty ! turned to clay 
 Before thou hadst attained thy prime ; 
 
 Far from thy happy Scottish home, 
 
 From all who knew and prized thy worth, 
 
 Unhappy ! 'twas thy lot to roam — 
 To be consigned to foreign earth. 
 
 In the strange land no friend was near, 
 To watch the ebbing tide of life ; 
 
 To soothe thy parting hour, and cheer 
 Thy mind oppressed by nature's strife. 
 
 A stranger felt thy breath's last wave ; 
 
 Thy sightless eyes a stranger closed ; 
 And for thy latest bed — the grave — 
 
 A stranger's hand thy limbs composed. 
 
 So young ! so fair ! so innocent ! 
 
 So soon to perish ! — but it is 
 Worse than a folly to lament 
 
 The end of all thy miseries. 
 
186 THRENODIES. 
 
 Tis past. The nickering flame is quenched ; 
 
 Thy light is out. No broken vow- 
 Shall touch thy heart, so harshly wrenched, — 
 
 That troubled heart is peaceful now ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Spirit of light ! who passed before men's eyes, 
 
 A dream-like presence ; like a star, 
 
 That shoots across the firmament, 
 
 When his lone path the weary pilgrim plies, 
 
 And hails it as some friendly light — not far; — 
 
 But it is past ; and now intent 
 
 He gazes on the darkness, and alone 
 
 He sighs his sad and melancholy moan ; — 
 
 So didst thou shine — so disappear, — 
 
 Fair as the snow-drop of the early year, 
 
 In climes with change of season blest : 
 
 So fair and short-lived ! like an air 
 
 Of the JEolian harp, addrest 
 
 To the sad ear of some bereaved wight, 
 
 Telling his sorrow to the solemn night, 
 
 Thy gentle spirit stole upon the sense — 
 
 Embodied soul of innocence ! 
 
 Thine was the sweetness of despair- — 
 
 A broken heart and thoughts resigned — 
 
 The untold grievings of a gentle mind — 
 
THRENODIES. 187 
 
 Painful remembrances and broken ties, 
 
 Reluctant smiles, and not unfrequent sighs — 
 
 A touching softness to thy features gave, 
 
 As if thou wert love's victim and its slave. 
 
 Yes ! thou wert fair and sadly sweet, 
 
 Like a bruised lily drooping on its bed, 
 
 Or like the flowers which, in some wild retreat, 
 
 Shed their brief sweetness o'er the mouldering dead. 
 
 So fair ! so sweet ! we mourn thy vanquishment 
 
 By death ; so sad, that we no more lament ! 
 
 What could this life afford thee ? formed to bless, 
 
 Yet waning in a mournful loneliness ! — 
 
 A wife and mother, who had seen 
 
 The light of life departing from the mien 
 
 Of each so well-beloved — the consort dear, 
 
 And the sweet fruit it was thy lot to bear. 
 
 Unfortunate ! one heart hath felt for thee 
 A holy sorrow — a pure sympathy 
 Far, far removed from love ; — a tenderness 
 That mourned thy page of sorrow and distress, 
 But only marked thy charms as saddened o'er 
 With grief, which told that thou couldst love no more. 
 That heart still dwells upon thy memory, 
 As a fine essence melted into air, — 
 A dream that fills the waking thought with care ; 
 A shape of gentleness, and love, and light, 
 Mixed with the shadows of eternal night. 
 
188 
 
 BRING ROSES. 
 
 Bring roses ! bring roses ! and scatter them, 
 
 We mourn not for her who died ; 
 Though bright is the rose of Jerusalem, 
 
 She was brighter — that sweet bride ! 
 
 Not lovely nor gracious that maiden's spouse, 
 
 But shadowy, cold, and dim ; 
 But cheerfully, gladly she made her vows, 
 
 And wept not to go with him. 
 
 In the first flush of her maidenly beauty, 
 
 When manhood was at her feet, 
 With meekness she followed the path of duty, 
 
 And went out the bridegroom to meet. 
 
 The dim, cold, shadowy bridegroom was death — 
 The young bride was Jephthah's child ! 
 
 For her country she gave up her innocent breath, 
 In her maidenhood, undefined. 
 
BRING ROSES. 189 
 
 Bring roses ! bring roses ! and scatter them, 
 
 While that maiden's praise we tell ; 
 Though bright is the rose of Jerusalem, 
 
 Brighter that child of Israel ! 
 
190 
 
 " ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?" 
 
 O yes ! there are ministering spirits on earth, 
 
 Who come from their thrones on a mission of love ; 
 
 To watch over men from the time of their birth — 
 To be with them in life, and to guide them above. 
 
 With the just and the gentle those spirits rejoice, 
 When, oppressed by the world, faint and weary they 
 seem ; 
 
 To their hearts the good angels become as a voice, 
 Or a vision of gladness that floats in a dream. 
 
 When their plumage is ruffled and wearily drooping, 
 They tend them with kindness, and help them to rise ; 
 
 When their death-hour comes, they, tenderly stooping, 
 Receive the free spirit — then up to the skies ! 
 
 The redeemed and the angel in gladness depart — 
 The ransomed no longer is faint or in danger ; 
 
 While the pleased angel shews him, like isles on a chart, 
 The homes of the blessed — where grief is a stranger. 
 

 ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS? 191 
 
 But, ah! if the sinner is deaf and is blind 
 
 To the voice and the warning, and if in his heart 
 
 The black drop still gathers, and round him entwined 
 Are the links, he'll not suffer his angel to part- — 
 
 If he loves the flesh-pot and the idol of gold, 
 Content with this world and enamoured of pelf; 
 
 To the demon of darkness self-bartered and sold, 
 While he owns in his heart no God but himself — 
 
 In grief and in sorrow the son of the morning 
 
 Drops a tear o'er the lost one, and flies to another ; 
 
 If haply that other will heed to his warning, 
 
 And take to his bosom his God and his brother. 
 
 O, yes ! there are ministering spirits on earth, 
 
 Who come from their thrones on a mission of love ; 
 
 To watch over men from the time of their birth — 
 To receive them from Death, and to guide them above. 
 
192 
 
 VENI CREATOR. 
 
 Creator Spirit, at whose breathing 
 
 Order rose from darkness and from strife, 
 
 Into shapes of beauty wreathing 
 All the hidden elements of life — 
 
 Spirit ! by whose dovelike motion 
 
 Was this heritage of ours 
 Separated from the ocean, 
 
 To the music of the circling hours ; 
 
 Creator Spirit ! come descending, 
 
 Like the dew upon the field ; 
 While all the worlds, their music blending, 
 
 To thee their grateful homage yield. 
 
193 
 
 THE FLOOD CAME AND TOOK THEM ALL AWAY. 
 
 The bridegroom with his bride was sleeping ; 
 The festal choir their vigils keeping ; 
 And now the sounds of wassail cease, 
 And all is hushed in solemn peace. 
 The night rose lovely, bright the air, — 
 Who would have feared destruction there ? 
 The morning came ; but ah ! no morn 
 To those of yesterday. Upborne, 
 The venerable Noah rode, 
 Secure and safe in his abode, 
 While, in the world of waters drowned, 
 Perished all living things around. 
 In vain the bridegroom linked his arms, 
 As if to guard her valued charms, 
 Around his speechless, senseless bride ; 
 She found no safety by his side. 
 In vain the mad and drunken rout 
 Quaffed the rich goblet, to keep out 
 The rushing waters at the door ; 
 They sunk — to rise no more ! 
 o 
 
194 THE FLOOD. 
 
 In vain the weak idolater 
 Called on his idols in his fear ; 
 Idolater and idols fell 
 Beneath the waves' tumultuous swell. 
 Even in the midst of all their sins 
 The awful scene of doom begins. 
 No breathing-space, no time is left ; 
 At once of hope and life bereft, 
 They look despairing on the skies ; — 
 The deluge comes ! the waters rise ! 
 The mountain-tops are covered o'er ; 
 The sea is now without a shore ; 
 The earth and all its life lies there, 
 Within a watery sepulchre. 
 
 Such is the course of hateful sin ! 
 Such is the fate it ushers in ! 
 While unrepentant man looks forth 
 Upon the sin-vexed, groaning earth, 
 And reads no sign — though signs there be- 
 Of change, and doom, and misery ! 
 The earth emerged, again to be 
 Ruined for man's iniquity, — 
 But once again ! when over all 
 This beautiful, life-breathing ball, 
 The fire, in ruin wild, shall spread, 
 Till Nature and her works be dead. 
 
195 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Spirit of Ocean ! fierce and terrible ! 
 
 From what deep and hidden cave, 
 Or unfathomable cell, 
 
 Breaketh thy fury on the slumbering wave ? 
 Calm as a lake in summer even, 
 Reflecting all the clouds of heaven, 
 The azure deep 
 Appeared asleep, 
 Till thou didst urge in wrath thy foaming car, 
 And rouse the waters and the winds to war. 
 
 Awful commotion ! when wild ruin peals, 
 
 And destruction walks the sea, 
 And earth's adamantine wheels 
 
 Are out of course and heave convulsively ; 
 When in their fierce and mad career 
 Conflicting winds deform the year, 
 Obscure the day, 
 And sweep away 
 The splendid glories of the sun at noon, 
 And quench the lamp of night — the queen-like moon. 
 
196 ODE. 
 
 The clouds their chariots with the waves they meet, 
 
 Fighting in the midst of foam ; 
 From their rage there's no retreat 
 
 For the poor wretch who thinks upon his home 
 As what he never more shall see ; — 
 " Farewell ! ye scenes of infancy ! 
 
 Father! Mother! 
 
 Sister ! Brother ! 
 Sweet wife ! dear children ! fare ye well !" 
 The Spirit of the Ocean shrieks his knell. 
 
 But while the yawning bark reels to and fro, 
 
 Plunging in the wild profound ; 
 While 'tis dark above, below, 
 
 And in the darkness instant death stalks round ; 
 When Hope no more the crew inspires, 
 But in the crash herself expires ; — 
 The word goes forth, 
 Heaven, ocean, earth, 
 Conflicting winds and waves, rebuked, obey, 
 And safe the bark pursues her peaceful way. 
 
 Spirit of Ocean ! mightier than thou, 
 
 Breathing in his mercy peace, 
 Curbs thy indignation now, 
 
 Restrains thy pride, and bids thy fury cease. 
 Back, Spirit ! to thy coral cell, 
 Or hidden caves, where thou must dwell 
 
ode. 197 
 
 Till sovereign power 
 
 Permit the hour 
 When thou mayest rage and tyrannise again, 
 Stir up the winds, and lash the mighty main ! 
 
198 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Parent of Light, Almighty Sire ! 
 
 Shine out, shine out ! 
 Saviour ! Conqueror ! come thou nigher, 
 
 Come with a shout ! 
 
 The worlds, which lived at thy command, 
 
 Obey thy will ; 
 Before thy glory dare not stand 
 
 The shapes of ill. 
 
 Shine out, shine out, Phansean God, 
 
 Thou ever bright ! 
 From thy invisible abode 
 
 Pour floods of light. 
 
 Come, monarch of unnumbered thrones, 
 
 Whom angels sing ; 
 Whom hell's dread master master owns — 
 
 Our glorious King ! 
 
HYMN. 199 
 
 Jewry awaits thy presence now 
 With reverence meet, 
 
 And Carmel stoops his regal brow 
 To kiss thy feet. 
 
 The earth is redolent of thee — 
 
 Vocal each hill ; 
 That thou art here we all but see, 
 
 Invisible ! 
 
200 
 
 HARP OF JUDAH. 
 
 Harp of Judah ! who may stir 
 
 Thy strings, long mute, with venturous fingers ? 
 Who the bold probationer 
 
 To try if there the spirit lingers ? 
 
 Silent harp of Solyma ! 
 
 None may now, with prophet skill, 
 Sing to thee a hallowed lay 
 
 Of our Sion's holy hill. 
 
 None may sweep thy solemn strings, 
 
 None can wake the voice that slumbers ; 
 
 None may hear thy murmurings, 
 
 None can chant to thee their numbers. 
 
 Silent lyre of royal David, 
 
 Which so oft in praise resounded, 
 For his life in battle saved, 
 
 And the mercies that abounded ; 
 
HARP OF JUDAH. 201 
 
 Shall no more the spirit waken 
 Thee to life and melody ? 
 
 Yes ! when Judah's foes are shaken, 
 And the Holy Land is free. 
 
 Then again shall Palestine 
 Listen to the glorious sound, 
 
 While thy melodies divine 
 Melt in air and float around. 
 
 Then shall voices in the air 
 
 Join with those of mortal birth, 
 
 And the music of the sphere 
 Mingle with the song of earth. 
 
202 
 
 ODE. 
 
 How long shall the oppressor be 
 
 The scourge of better men ? 
 How long shall scowling tyranny 
 
 Debase the citizen ? 
 How long shall the oppressed cry 
 
 For vengeance on the proud ? 
 How long shall crouching slavery 
 
 Pour curses deep, not loud ? 
 
 How long shall vice usurp the place 
 
 Where virtue ought to be, 
 And trulls and sycophants disgrace 
 
 The courts of royalty ? 
 How long shall men bow down to gold, 
 
 As if the only good, 
 And worship it, as men of old 
 
 Did worship stone and wood ? 
 
 How long shall man continue blind 
 
 To his true interest — 
 The hopes of Canaan cast behind, 
 
 And think his Egypt best ? 
 
ODE. 203 
 
 How long shall vilest uses be 
 
 To what are right preferred, 
 And pride and sensuality 
 
 Make vain God's written Word ? 
 
 The time will come, and may be near, 
 
 When all shall have an end ; 
 When Christ in glory shall appear, 
 
 And with a shout descend. 
 When earth shall melt with fervent heat, 
 
 Consumed like a scroll, 
 And vanquished myriads at his feet 
 
 Confess the Lord of all . 
 
 The mighty then in vain shall call 
 
 For mountains to conceal them ; 
 The eye of vengeance marks their fall — 
 
 Its burnings shall reveal them. 
 Wo ! wo ! wo to the wicked then, 
 
 The dwellers on the earth ; 
 The envy of their fellow-men — 
 
 Then abject — curse their birth. 
 
 But hark ! what blessed spirits breathe 
 
 Their music in the skies, 
 While Beauty, Light, and Love inwreathe 
 
 Their forms as they arise ? 
 
204 ODE. 
 
 They are the witnesses who died 
 
 In honour of their Lord ; 
 The chosen and the sanctified — 
 
 The preachers of the Word. 
 
 It was God who delivered them ; 
 
 It is he doth approve 
 The jewels of his diadem — 
 
 The children of his love. 
 They were caught up to meet him, 
 
 In mid air, as he came ; 
 From their graves they come to greet him, 
 
 From the deep they shout his name ! 
 
205 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Mighty to save, and powerful to redeem! 
 Emmanuel ! save, for thou alone canst save ! 
 Our dark estate illume with mercy's beam, 
 And break the stern dominion of the grave. 
 Receive us from destruction's furious wave, 
 That we may walk through death's dim, shadowy vale ; 
 Strong in thy strength, and in thy presence brave, 
 Trusting in thee, whose arm can never fail, 
 Beneath thy shield secure, we combat and prevail. 
 
 Thou art the Lord ! the Holy One, and Just ! 
 Redeemer, Saviour, Rock ! the First and Last ! 
 And we are in thy sight as grains of dust, 
 Which the swift whirlwind scattered as it passed ; 
 The sand of our brief life is running fast, 
 And then we must at thy tribunal plead — 
 Our righteousness ? No ! Father, but thy vast 
 Unbounded love, which from the first decreed 
 That for his fallen people thy Elect should bleed. 
 
206 HYMN. 
 
 And who is the Elect? Satan can tell, 
 
 Whose death his vaunted wiles discomfited ; 
 
 By whose Almighty power from heaven he fell, 
 
 And whose the heel that bruised the serpent's head. 
 
 Who is the Ransomer ? the ransomed — 
 
 The slaves redeemed to freedom, they must know ; 
 
 The people whom he saves can tell who bled ; 
 
 The King ! who was for us a man of wo ; 
 
 To whom light, life, redemption, liberty, we owe ! 
 
207 
 
 FROM JOB, Chap. III. 
 
 Perish the day in which I saw the light — 
 
 Deep clouds involve it and eternal night ! 
 
 Let death's dim shadows compass it around, 
 
 And wo and wailing in that night abound ! 
 
 Perish the night in which I was conceived ; 
 
 Be that dark gloom by no brief light relieved 
 
 Of moon, or glimmering star, or opening dawn ; 
 
 From that cursed night for ever be withdrawn 
 
 All sounds and shapes — feelings and thoughts that 
 
 move 
 Pleasure and gladness, joy and mirth and love ! 
 Curses cling to it ; fear, suspense, and care, 
 Doubt and despondence, misbelief, despair ! 
 Why was the womb not shut ? or, open, why 
 Did not the unformed, shapeless embryo die ? 
 Or, being born, why did I live to curse 
 Her once so loved — my mother and my nurse ? 
 Then had I been still, quiet and at rest, 
 With counsellors and kings, who once possessed 
 Silver and gold, and beauty-haunted bowers — 
 Sweet homes of pleasure, and embattled towers. 
 
208 FROM JOB. 
 
 From sin and troubling there the wicked cease, 
 And there the weary find repose and peace. 
 There rests the captive — the oppressor there — 
 The small and great one bed of quiet share. 
 Why is light given to those who wish to die, 
 And in the grave rejoice exceedingly ? 
 Why must the grieved in spirit onward tread 
 The path that leads them to the silent dead ? 
 Since nothing is the end of this distress, 
 Why am I not at once this nothingness ? 
 
209 
 
 
 JOB, Chap. IV. 
 
 Deep sleep had fallen upon the eyes of men ; 
 I was awake, alone, and thoughtful then. 
 I feared and I trembled, but knew not why ; 
 All my bones shook ; a spirit passed by. 
 It passed before my face, noiseless, yet near, 
 And the hair of my flesh stood up with fear. 
 Its form I discerned not,. although it stood still ; 
 Then spake that visible Invisible. 
 
 " Is mortal man, the animated clod, 
 Pure as his Maker, or more just than God — 
 Before whose throne of ever-living light 
 The brightest angel seems not to be bright ; 
 Abased and dazzled the archangel fails, 
 And his bright face the reverent cherub veils ? 
 Shall man with Him contend ? — poor child of clay ! 
 Whose little life is bounded to a day ; 
 
 p 
 
210 job. 
 
 Who dies from morn to night, none asking why ; 
 Whose only knowledge is, that he must die ; 
 Poor worm ! that would resist the outstretched rod — 
 Outstretched to save ! — shall man contend with God ?" 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 J. MOYES> CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE. 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proces; 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: March 2009 
 
 PreservationTechnoiogie* 
 
 A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATIO 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 (724)779-2111