More mournful then 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, The cold limbs of my brave, my beauteous child! 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; I find by referring to the book that I have here made a mistake, which I hope the reader will pardon. The knots were tied at the time of Le Boo's departure, and one untied every moon by the disconsolate father. There is a very interesting relation on this subject in Dixon's Voyage round the World, who, some years afterwards, sailing near the Pelew Islands, observed a person on shore making signs to the vessel, whom we have reason to suppose from subsequent accounts to have been the unfortunate father of Le Boo. Captain Dixon at the time was ignorant of every circumstance relating to this interesting story, with which Mr. Keate concludes his account of the Pelew Islands. And 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. REV. W. L. BOWLES. THE EXILE. FAREWELL, oh native Spain! farewell for ever! These banish'd eyes shall view thy coasts no more: A mournful presage tells my heart that never Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore. Hush'd are the winds, while soft the vessel sailing With gentle motion ploughs the' unruffled main, I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing, And curse the waves which bear me far from I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven There in the sun his nets the fisher dries; Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him With honest welcome and with smile sincere: No threatening woes of present joys bereave him; No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear. Ah! happy swain! such bliss to me denying, No more mine ear shall list the well known ditty No more my arms a parent's fond embraces, No more my heart domestic calm must know; Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces, To sultry skies and distant climes I go. Where Indian suns engender new diseases, Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way, To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases, The yellow plague and madding blaze of day. But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver, To die by peacemeal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drunk by insatiate fever, And brain delirious with the daystar's rage Can make me know such grief as thus to sever, With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee; To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever, And feel that all thy joys are torn from me! Ah me! how oft will fancy's spells, in slumber, Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind! Wild Murcia's vales and loved romantic bowers, Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre, Oh! breathe not, winds! Still be the water's Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main! Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning, THE ADIEU. YE hills of my country, soft fading in blue; That mingles its tide with the blood of the brave; mine. Ye scenes of remembrance that sorrow beguiled, But never to me shall the summer renew The bowers where the days of my happiness flew ; Where my soul found her partner, and thought to bestow The colours of heaven on the dwellings of woe! |