LAMENT OF ABBA THULLÉ,
KING OF THE PELEW ISLANDS,
For his Son Lee Boo, who accompanied Captain Wilson to England, on a visit, but who died of the Small Pox.
I CLIMB the highest cliff; I hear the sound
Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around :
I mark the sun, that orient lifts his head!
I mark the sea's lone rule beneath him spread;
But not a speck can my long-straining eye,
A shadow o'er the tossing waste descry,
That I might weep tears of delight, and say,
"It is the bark that bore my child away!"
Thou sun, that beamest bright! beneath whose eye,
The worlds unknown, and outstretch'd waters, lie;
Dost thou behold him now, on some rude shore,
Around whose crags the cheerless billows roar?
Watching the unwearied surges doth he stand,
And think upon his father's distant land?
Or has his heart forgot, so far away,
These native scenes, these rocks, and torrents grey;
The tall bananas, whispering to the breeze;
The shores, the sound of those encirling seas,
Heard from his infant days, and the pil'd heap
Of holy stones, where his forefathers sleep?
Ah, me! till sunk by sorrow, I shall dwell
With them forgetful, in the narrow cell;
Never shall time from my fond heart efface
His image: oft his shadow I shall trace
Upon the glimmering waters, when on high
The white moon wanders through the cloudless sky.
Oft in my silent cave (when to its fire,
From the night's rushing tempest, we retire)
I shall behold his form, his aspect bland;
I shall retrace his footsteps in the sand;
And when I hear the hollow surges swell,
Still think I listen to his echoing shell.
Would I had perish'd, ere that hapless day,
When the tall vessel, in its trim array,
First rush'd upon the sounding surge, and bore
My age's comfort from the sheltering shore!
I saw it spread its white wings to the wind:
Too soon it left these hills and woods behind.
Gazing, its course I follow'd till mine eye
No longer could its distant track descry:
Till on the confines of the billows hoar,
Awhile it hung, and then was seen no more;
And only the blue hollow heaven I spied,,
And the long waste of waters tossing wide.
More mournful than each falling surge I heard, Then dropp'd the stagnant tear upon my beard,
Methought the wild waves said, amidst their roar, At midnight, "Thou shalt see thy son no more!"
Now thrice twelve moons through the mid heavens have roll'd,
And many a dawn and slow night have I told;
And still, as every weary day goes by,
A knot, recording, on my line I tie;
But never more, emerging from the main,
I see the stranger's bark approach again.
Has the fell storm o'erwhelm'd him? Has its sweep
Buried the bounding vessel in the deep?
Is he cast, bleeding, on some desert plain?
Upon his father did he call in vain ?
Have pitiless and bloody tribes defil'd
The cold limbs of my brave, my beauteous child?
Oh! I shall never, never hear his voice.
The spring-time shall return, the isles rejoice,
But faint and weary I shall meet the morn,
And, 'mid the cheering sunshine, droop forlorn!
The joyous conch sounds in the high wood loud,
O'er all the beach now stream the busy crowd;
Fresh breezes stir the waving plantain grove,
The fisher carols in the winding cove;
The light canoes, along the lucid tide,
With painted shells, and sparkling paddles, glide:
I linger on the desert rock alone,
Heartless, and cry for thee, my Son! my Son!
At the entrance of a Burial-ground for Negro Slaves*.
STRANGER! Whoe'er thou art, with reverence tread,
Lo! these, the silent mansions of the dead!
His life of labour o'er, the wearied slave
Here finds at length, soft quiet in the grave.
View not, with proud disdain, the unsculptur'd heap,
Where injur'd innocence forgets to weep;
Nor idly deem, although not here are found
The solemn aisle, and consecrated ground,
The spot less sacred:-o'er the turf-built shrine,
Where Virtue sleeps, presides the Power Divine.
On a plantation in Jamaica, belonging to Bryan Edwards, (author of an excellent History of the West Indies,) the Negroes had chosen for their burial-ground a retired spot, in a grove of pimento, or allspice. It was a place extremely solemn and singularly beautiful; and Mr. Edwards directed, that, in case of his death in Jamaica, he should be buried in the midst of them. As the ground was exposed to the intrusion of cattle, he caused a fence to be raised round it, and inscribed these lines on the little wicket at the entrance.
WELCOME, thou little dimpled stranger,
Oh! welcome to my fond embrace;
Thou sweet reward of pain and danger,
Still let me press thy cherub face.
Dear source of many a mingled feeling,
How did I dread, yet wish thee here!
While hope and fear, in turns prevailing,
Serv'd but to render thee more dear.
How glow'd my heart with exultation,
So late the anxious seat of care,
When first thy voice of supplication,
Stole sweetly on thy mother's ear.
What words could speak the bright emotion,
That sparkled in thy father's eye,
When to his fond paternal bosom
He proudly press'd his darling boy!
Oh! that thou mayst, sweet babe, inherit
Each virtue to his heart most dear;
His manly grace, his matchless merit,
Is still thy doating mother's prayer.
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