HERE, by the margin of the murmuring main, | |
| While her proud remnants I explore in vain, | |
| And lonely stray through these dejected lands | |
| Fanned by the noontide breeze on burning sands, | |
| Where the dull Spaniard once possessed these shades, | 5 |
| And ports defended by his palisades,— | |
| Though lost to us, Port Royal claims a sigh, | |
| Nor shall the Muse the unenvied verse deny. | |
| Of all the towns that graced Jamaica’s isle, | |
| This was her glory, and the proudest pile, | 10 |
| Where toils on toils bade wealth’s gay structures rise, | |
| And commerce swelled her glory to the skies; | |
| St. Jago, seated on a distant plain, | |
| Ne’er saw the tall ship entering from the main, | |
| Unnoticed streams her Cobra’s margin lave, | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| O’er these sad shores in angry pomp he passed, | |
| Moved in the winds, and raged with every blast. | |
| Here opening gulfs confessed the Almighty Hand, | |
| Here the dark ocean rolled across the land, | |
| Here piles on piles an instant tore away, | 25 |
| Here crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay, | |
| Whom fate scarce gave to end their noonday feast, | |
| Or time to call the sexton or the priest. | |
| Where yond’ tall barque, with all her ponderous load, | |
| Commits her anchor to its dark abode, | 30 |
| Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow | |
| To quench the sulphur of the caves below, | |
| There midnight sounds torment the sailor’s ear, | |
| And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts there, | |
| Sad songs of woe prevent the hours of sleep, | 35 |
| And Fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep; | |
| Dull Superstition hears the ghostly hum, | |
| Smit with the terrors of the world to come. | |
| What now is left of all your boasted pride! | |
| Lost are those glories that were spread so wide. | 40 |
| A spit of sand is thine, by Heaven’s decree, | |
| And wasting shores that scarce resist the sea: | |
| Is this Port Royal on Jamaica’s coast, | |
| The Spaniard’s envy and the Britain’s boast! | |
| A shattered roof o’er every hut appears, | 45 |
| And mouldering brick-work prompts the traveller’s fears; | |
| A church, with half a priest, I grieve to see, | |
| Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!— | |
| One only inn with tiresome search I found, | |
| Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round. * * * * * | 50 |
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