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| 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, | 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 swell’d 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 yon tall plantains shade her glowing wave, | |
| And burning sands, or rock-surrounded hill | |
| Confess its founder’s fears—or want of skill. | |
| While o’er these wastes with wearied step I go, | |
| Past scenes of death return, in all their wo, | 20 |
| O’er these sad shores, in angry pomp he pass’d, | |
| Moved in the winds, and raged with every blast— | |
| Here, opening gulphs confess’d the Almighty hand, | |
| Here, the dark ocean roll’d across the land, | |
| Here, piles on piles an instant tore away, | 25 |
| Here, crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay, | |
| Whom fate scarce gave to end their noon-day feast, | |
| Or time to call the sexton, or the priest. | |
| Where yon tall bark, with all her ponderous load, | |
| Commits her anchor to its dark abode, | 30 |
| Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow, | |
| To quench the sulphur of the caves below: | |
| There midnight sounds torment the sailors ear, | |
| And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts there, | |
| Sad songs of wo prevent the hour of sleep, | 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 Briton’s boast! | |
| A shatter’d 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 |
| His was the part to wait the impatient call, | |
| He was the landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all; | |
| His wary eyes on every side were cast, | |
| Beheld the present, and revolved the past, | |
| Now here, now there, in swift succession stole, | 55 |
| Glanced at the bar, or watch’d the unsteady bowl. | |
| No sprightly lads or gay bewitching maids | |
| Walk on these wastes, or wander in these shades; | |
| To other shores past times beheld them go, | |
| And some are slumbering in the caves below; | 60 |
| A negro tribe but ill their place supply, | |
| With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye; | |
| A swarthy race lead up the evening dance, | |
| Trip o’er the sands and dart the alluring glance: | |
| A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town, | 65 |
| Where banish’d tories come to seek renown, | |
| Where worn out slaves their bowls of beer retail, | |
| And sunburnt strumpets watch the approaching sail. | |
| Here (scarce escaped the wild tornado’s rage,) | |
| Why sail’d I here to swell my future page! | 70 |
| To these dull scenes with eager haste I came | |
| To trace the relics of their ancient fame, | |
| Not worth the search!—what domes are left to fall, | |
| Guns, gales, and earthquakes shall destroy them all— | |
| All shall be lost!—though hosts their aid implore, | 75 |
| The Twelve Apostles shall protect no more, | |
| Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish’d plain; | |
| No priest shall mutter, and no church remain, | |
| Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade, | |
| Where the dark negro his dull music play’d, | 80 |
| Or casts his view beyond the adjacent strand, | |
| And points, still grieving, to his native land, | |
| Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore, | |
| And pants for countries he must see no more. | |
| Where shall I go, what Lethe shall I find | 85 |
| To drive these dark ideas from my mind! | |
| No buckram heroes can relieve the eye, | |
| And George’s honors only raise a sigh— | |
| Ye mountains vast, whose heights the heaven sustain, | |
| Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston’s plain, | 90 |
| Where nature still the toils of art transcends— | |
| In this dull spot the enchanting prospect ends: | |
| Where burning sands are wing’d by every blast, | |
| And these mean fabrics but entomb the past; | |
| Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside, | 95 |
| 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! | 100 |
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