LINES[280]

Written at Port-Royal, in the Island of Jamaica

Here, by the margin of the murmuring main, While her proud remnants I explore in vain, And lonely stray through these dejected lands Fann'd by the noon-tide breeze on burning sands, Where the dull Spaniard once possess'd these shades, And ports defended by his Pallisades[A]-- Tho' lost to us, Port Royal claims a sigh, Nor shall the Muse the unenvied gift deny.

Of all the towns that grac'd Jamaica's isle This was her glory, and the proudest pile, Where toils on toils bade wealth's gay structures rise, And commerce swell'd her glory to the skies: St. Jago, seated on a distant plain, Ne'er saw the tall ship entering from the main, Unnotic'd streams her Cobra's[B] margin lave Where yond' tall plantains shade her glowing wave, And burning sands or rock surrounded hill Confess its founder's fears--or want of skill.

While o'er these wastes with wearied step I go, Past scenes of death return, in all their woe,[281]

O'er these sad sh.o.r.es in angry pomp he pa.s.s'd, Mov'd in the winds, and rag'd with every blast-- Here,[C] opening gulphs confess'd the almighty hand, Here, the dark ocean roll'd across the land, Here, piles on piles an instant tore away, Here, crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay, Whom fate scarce gave to end their noon-day feast, Or time to call the s.e.xton, or the priest.

Where yond' tall barque, with all her ponderous load, Commits her anchor to its dark abode, Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow To quench the sulphur of the caves below, Here midnight sounds torment the sailor's ear, And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts here,[282]

Sad songs of woe prevent the hours of sleep, And Fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep; Dull Superst.i.tion hears the ghostly hum, Smit with the terrors of the world to come.

What now is left of all thy boasted pride!

Lost are thy glories that were spread so wide, A spit of sand is thine, by heaven's decree, And wasting sh.o.r.es that scarce resist the sea: Is this Port-Royal on Jamaica's coast, The Spaniard's envy, and the Briton's boast!

A shatter'd roof o'er every hut appears, And mouldering brick-work prompts the traveller's fears; A church, with half a priest, I grieve to see, Gra.s.s round its door, and rust upon its key!-- One only inn with tiresome search I found Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round;-- His was the part to wait the impatient call, He was our landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all; His wary eyes on every side were cast, Beheld the present, and revolv'd the past, Now here, now there, in swift succession stole, Glanc'd at the bar, or watch'd the unsteady bowl.

No sprightly lads or gay bewitching maids[283]

Walk on these wastes or wander in these shades; To other sh.o.r.es past times beheld them go, And some are slumbering in the caves below; A negro tribe but ill their place supply, With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye;[284]

A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town, Where banish'd Tories come to seek renown, Where worn-out slaves their bowls of beer retail, And sun-burnt strumpets watch the approaching sail.

Here (scarce escap'd the wild tornado's rage) Why sail'd I here to swell my future page!

To these dull scenes with eager haste I came To trace the reliques of their ancient fame, Not worth the search!--what domes are left to fall, Guns, gales, and earthquakes shall destroy them all-- All shall be lost!--tho' hosts their aid implore, The Twelve Apostles[D] shall protect no more, Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish'd plain; No priest shall mutter, and no saint remain, Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade, Where the dark negro his dull music play'd, Or casts his view beyond the adjacent strand And points, still grieving, to his native land, Turns and returns from yonder murmuring sh.o.r.e, And pants for countries he must see no more-- Where shall I go, what Lethe shall I find To drive these dark ideas from my mind!

No buckram heroes can relieve the eye, And George's honours only raise a sigh-- Not even these walls a glad remembrance claim,[285]

Where grief still wastes a half deluded dame, Whom to these coasts a British Paris bore, And basely left, lost virtue to deplore.-- In foreign climes detain'd from all she lov'd, By friends neglected, long by fortune prov'd, While sad and solemn pa.s.s'd the unwelcome day, What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay!

Deceiv'd in all--for meanness could deceive-- Expecting still, and still condemn'd to grieve, She scarcely saw, to different hearts allied, That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride.-- Are griefs like thine to Florio's bosom known?

Must these, alas, be ceaseless in your own?-- Life is a dream--its varying shades I see, But this base wanderer hardly dreams of thee.

Ye mountains vast, whose heights the heaven sustain, Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston's plain; Where Nature still the toils of art transcends-- In this dull spot the fine delusion ends, Where burning sands are borne by every blast And these mean fabrics still bewail the past; Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside, And threatening moons advance the imperious tide:-- Ye stormy winds, awhile your wrath suspend, Who leaves the land, a bottle, and a friend, Quits this bright isle for yon' blue seas and sky, Or even Port-Royal quits--without a sigh!

_Sept. 1784._

[A] Pallisades a narrow strip of land about seven miles in length, running nearly from north to south, and forming the harbours of Port Royal and Kingston.--_Freneau's note, 1809 edition._

[B] A small river falling into Kingston Bay, nearly opposite Port Royal--and which has its source in the hills beyond Spanish Town.--_Freneau's note, 1809 edition._

[C] Old Port-Royal contained more than 1500 buildings, and these for the most part large and elegant. This unfortunate town was for a long time reckoned the most considerable mart of trade in the West Indies. It was destroyed on the 17th of June, 1692, by an earthquake which in two minutes sunk the far greater part of the buildings; in which disaster near 3000 people lost their lives.--_Freneau's note._

[D] A Battery so called, on the side of the harbour opposite to Port-Royal.--_Freneau's note._

[280] First published in the 1788 edition, the text of which I have followed. For the 1809 edition Freneau made numerous verbal changes. On an average, he changed a word in every line. No poem of Freneau's shows more clearly his peculiar mania for revision. In the 1795 edition the t.i.tle is "Port Royal," in the 1809 edition it is "Written at Port Royal, in the Island of Jamaica--September, 1784."

[281] The edition of 1809 adds:

"Here _for their crimes_ (_perhaps_) in ages fled, Some vengeful fiend, familiar with the dead--"

[282] The edition of 1809 adds:

"Of ghosts all restless!--(cease they to complain-- More than a century should relieve their pain--)."

A footnote adds the comment: "A superst.i.tion, at present, existing only among the ignorant."

[283] "Handsome _Yankee_ maids."--_Ed. 1809._

[284] The edition of 1809 adds:

"That gloomy race lead up the evening dance, Skip on the sands, or dart the alluring glance: Sincere are they?--no--on your gold they doat-- And in one hour--for that would cut your throat.

All is deceit--half h.e.l.l is in their song And from the silent thought?--_You have done us wrong!_"

[285] This line and the fifteen following omitted from the later editions.

TO SIR TOBY[286]

A Sugar Planter in the interior parts of Jamaica, near the City of San Jago de la Vega, (Spanish Town) 1784

"_The motions of his spirit are black as night, And his affections dark as Erebus._"

--SHAKESPEARE.

If there exists a h.e.l.l--the case is clear-- Sir Toby's slaves enjoy that portion here: Here are no blazing brimstone lakes--'tis true; But kindled Rum too often burns as blue; In which some fiend, whom nature must detest, Steeps Toby's brand, and marks poor Cudjoe's breast.[A]

Here whips on whips excite perpetual fears, And mingled howlings vibrate on my ears: Here nature's plagues abound, to fret and teaze, Snakes, scorpions, despots, lizards, centipees-- No art, no care escapes the busy lash; All have their dues--and all are paid in cash-- The eternal driver keeps a steady eye On a black herd, who would his vengeance fly, But chained, imprisoned, on a burning soil, For the mean avarice of a tyrant, toil!

The lengthy cart-whip guards this monster's reign-- And cracks, like pistols, from the fields of cane.

Ye powers! who formed these wretched tribes, relate, What had they done, to merit such a fate!

Why were they brought from Eboe's[B] sultry waste, To see that plenty which they must not taste-- Food, which they cannot buy, and dare not steal; Yams and potatoes--many a scanty meal!-- One, with a gibbet wakes his negro's fears, One to the windmill nails him by the ears; One keeps his slave in darkened dens, unfed, One puts the wretch in pickle ere he's dead: This, from a tree suspends him by the thumbs, That, from his table grudges even the crumbs!

O'er yond' rough hills a tribe of females go, Each with her gourd, her infant, and her hoe; Scorched by a sun that has no mercy here, Driven by a devil, whom men call overseer-- In chains, twelve wretches to their labours haste; Twice twelve I saw, with iron collars graced!-- Are such the fruits that spring from vast domains?

Is wealth, thus got, Sir Toby, worth your pains!-- Who would your wealth on terms, like these, possess, Where all we see is pregnant with distress-- Angola's natives scourged by ruffian hands, And toil's hard product shipp'd to foreign lands.

Talk not of blossoms, and your endless spring; What joy, what smile, can scenes of misery bring?-- Though Nature, here, has every blessing spread, Poor is the labourer--and how meanly fed!-- Here Stygian paintings light and shade renew, Pictures of h.e.l.l, that Virgil's[C] pencil drew: Here, surly Charons make their annual trip, And ghosts arrive in every Guinea ship, To find what beasts these western isles afford, Plutonian scourges, and despotic lords:-- Here, they, of stuff determined to be free, Must climb the rude cliffs of the Liguanee;[D]

Beyond the clouds, in sculking haste repair, And hardly safe from brother traitors there.--[E]

[A] This pa.s.sage has a reference to the West India custom (sanctioned by law) of branding a newly imported slave on the breast, with a red hot iron, as an evidence of the purchaser's property.--_Freneau's note._

[B] A small negro kingdom near the river Senegal.--_Freneau's note._

[C] See Eneid, Book 6th.--and Fenelon's Telemachus, Book 18.--_Ib._

[D] The mountains northward of Kingston.--_Freneau's note._

[E] Alluding to the _Independent_ negroes in the blue mountains, who for a stipulated reward, deliver up every fugitive that falls into their hands, to the English Government.--_Ib._

[286] Text from the edition of 1809. The poem seems first to have been published in the _National Gazette_ of July 21, 1792, under the t.i.tle, "The Island Field Hand," with the note: "Written some years ago at a sugar plantation in Jamaica." The present text contains numerous minor variations from the edition of 1795. The four lines beginning "The eternal driver" are original in the 1809 edition.

ELEGY ON MR. ROBERT BELL[287]

The celebrated humourist, and truly philanthropic Book-seller formerly of Philadelphia, written, 1786