With just precision could the point decide,
Tho' not in song; the muse but poorly shines
In cones and cubes and geometric lines.
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose-egg-shell
Which in two equal portions shall divide
The distance from the center to the side.
Fear not to slaver; 't is no deadly sin.
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend the ready napkin; or, like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee,
Just in the zenith your wise head preject
Your full spoon, rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heeds no drops that fall;
The wide-mouth'd bowl will surely catch them all.
THE BEAUTIES OF SANTA CRUZ
Sick of thy northern glooms, come, shepherd, seek
More equal climes and a serener sky:
Why shouldst thou toil amid thy frozen ground,
Where half year's snows a barren prospect lie,
When thou mayst go where never frost was seen,
Or north-west winds with cutting fury blow,
Where never ice congeal'd the limpid stream,
Where never mountain tipt its head with snow?
Twice seven days prosperous gales thy barque shall bear
To isles that flourish in perpetual green,
Where richest herbage glads each shady vale,
And ever verdant plants on every hill are seen.
From the vast caverns of old ocean's bed
Fair SANTA CRUZ arising laves her waist;
The threat'ning waters roar on every side,
For every side by ocean is embrac'd.
Sharp, craggy rocks repell the surging brine,
Whose cavern'd sides, by restless billows wore,
Resemblance claim to that remoter isle
Where once the winds' proud lord the sceptre bore.
Betwixt old Cancer and the mid-way line,
In happiest climate lies this envied isle:
Trees bloom throughout the year, streams ever flow,
And fragrant Flora wears a lasting smile. . . . .
The happy waters boast, of various kinds,
Unnumber'd myriads of the scaly race;
Sportive they glide above the delug'd sand,
Gay as their clime, in ocean's ample vase.
Some, streak'd with burnish'd gold, resplendent glare,
Some cleave the limpid deep all silver'd o'er,
Some clad in living green delight the eye,
Some red, some blue, of mingled colours more.
Here glides the spangled Dolphin through the deep;
The giant-carcas'd whales at distance stray;
The huge green turtles wallow through the wave,
Well pleas'd alike with land or water they. . . . .
Sweet verdant isle, through thy dark woods I rove
And learn the nature of each native tree:
The fustick hard, the poisonous manchineel,
Which for its fragrant apple pleaseth thee;
Alluring to the smell, fair to the eye,
But deadliest poison in the taste is found-
O shun the dangerous tree, nor taste, like Eve,
This interdicted fruit in Eden's ground.
The lowly mangrove, fond of watry soil,
The white-bark'd gregory, rising high in air,
The mastick in the woods you may descry;
Tamarind and lofty plumb-trees flourish there.
Sweet orange groves in lonely vallies rise,
And drop their fruits unnotic'd and unknown;
The cooling acid limes in hedges grow,
The juicy lemons swell in shades their own.
So broad, so long: through these refresh'd I stray,
And though the noon-sun all his radiance shed,
These friendly leaves shall shade me all the way,
And tempt the cooling breeze to hasten there,
With its sweet odorous breath to charm the grove;
High shades and verdant seats, while underneath
A little stream by mossy banks doth rove,
Where once the Indian dames slept with their swains,
Or fondly kiss'd the moon-light eves away;
The lovers fled, the tearful stream remains,
And only I console it with my lay. . . . .
But, shepherd, haste, and leave behind thee far
Thy bloody plains and iron glooms above;
Quit the cold northern star, and here enjoy
Beneath the smiling skies this land of love.
The drowsy pelican wings home his way,
The misty eve sits heavy on the sea,
And though yon' sail drags slowly o'er the main, Say, shall a moment's gloom discourage thee? To-morrow's sun now paints the faded scene; Though deep in ocean sink his western beams, His spangled chariot shall ascend more clear, More radiant, from the drowsy land of dreams. 1776.
THE HOUSE OF NIGHT
By some sad means, when Reason holds no sway,
Lonely I rov'd at midnight o'er a plain
Where murmuring streams and mingling rivers flow
Far to their springs or seek the sea again.
Sweet vernal May! tho' then thy woods in bloom
Flourish'd, yet nought of this could Fancy see;
No wild pinks bless'd the meads, no green the fields,
And naked seem'd to stand each lifeless tree.
Dark was the sky, and not one friendly star
Shone from the zenith or horizon, clear;
Mist sate upon the woods, and darkness rode
In her black chariot with a wild career.
And from the woods the late-resounding note
Issued of the loquacious Whip-poor-will;
Hoarse, howling dogs and nightly roving wolves
Clamour'd from far-off clifts invisible.
Rude from the wide-extended Chesapeke
I heard the winds the dashing waves assail,
And saw from far, by picturing fancy form'd,
The black ship travelling through the noisy gale.
At last, by chance and guardian fancy led,
I reach'd a noble dome rais'd fair and high,
And saw the light from upper windows flame,
Presage of mirth and hospitality.
And by that light around the dome appear'd
A mournful garden of autumnal hue;
Its lately pleasing flowers all drooping stood
Amidst high weeds that in rank plenty grew.
The Primrose there, the violet darkly blue,
Daisies and fair Narcissus ceas'd to rise;
Gay spotted pinks their charming bloom withdrew,
And Polyanthus quench'd its thousand dyes.
No pleasant fruit or blossom gaily smil'd;
Nought but unhappy plants and trees were seen:
The yew, the myrtle, and the church-yard elm,
The cypress with its melancholy green.
There cedars dark, the osier, and the pine,
Shorn tamarisks, and weeping willows grew.
The poplar tall, the lotos, and the lime;
And pyracantha did her leaves renew.
The poppy there, companion to repose,
Display'd her blossoms that began to fall;
And here the purple amaranthus rose,
With mint strong-scented, for the funeral.
And here and there, with laurel shrubs between,
A tombstone lay, inscrib'd with strains of woe;
And stanzas sad, throughout the dismal green,
Lamented for the dead that slept below.
Peace to this awful dome!-when strait I heard
The voice of men in a secluded room;
Much did they talk of death and much of life,
Of coffins, shrouds, and horrors of a tomb.
Then up three winding stairs my feet were brought
To a high chamber, hung with mourning sad;
The unsnuff'd candles glar'd with visage dim,
'Midst grief in ecstasy of woe run mad.
A wide-leaf'd table stood on either side,
Well fraught with phials, half their liquids spent;
And from a couch behind the curtain's veil
I heard a hollow voice of loud lament.
Turning to view the object whence it came,
My frighted eyes a horrid form survey'd
(Fancy, I own thy power): Death on the couch,
With fleshless limbs, at rueful length, was laid.
And o'er his head flew jealousies and cares,
Ghosts, imps, and half the black Tartarian crew,
Arch-angels damn'd; nor was their Prince remote,
Borne on the vaporous wings of Stygian dew.
Around his bed, by the dull flambeaux' glare,
I saw pale phantoms: Rage to madness vext,
Wan, wasting grief, and ever-musing care,
Distressful pain, and poverty perplext.
Sad was his countenance-if we can call
That countenance where only bones were seen-
And eyes sunk in their sockets, dark and low,
And teeth that only show'd themselves to grin.
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