DECEMBER 10. (Sunday.)
What triumph moves on the billows so blue?
In his car of pellucid pearl I view,
With glorious pomp, on the dancing tide,
The tropic Genius proudly ride.
The flying fish, who trail his car,
Dazzle the eye, as they shine from afar;
Twinkling their fins in the sun, and show
All the hues which adorn the showery bow.
Of dark sea-blue is the mantle he wears;
For a sceptre a plantain branch he bears;
Pearls his sable arms surround,
And his locks of wool with coral are crown’d.
Perpetual sunbeams round him stream;
His bronzed limbs shine with golden gleam;
The spicy spray from his wheels that showers,
Makes the sense ache with its odorous powers.
Myriads of monsters, who people the caves
Of ocean, attendant plough the waves;
Sharks and crocodiles bask in his blaze,
And whales spout the waters which dance in his rays.
And as onward floats that triumph gay,
The light sea-breezes around it play;
While at his royal feet lie bound
The Ouragans, hush’d in sleep profound.
Dark Genius, hear a stranger’s prayer,
Nor suffer those winds to ravage and tear
Jamaica’s savannas, and loose to fly,
Mingling the earth, and the sea, and the sky.
From thy locks on my harvest of sweets diffuse,
To swell my canes, refreshing dews;
And kindly breathe, with cooling powers,
Through my coffee walks and shaddock bowers.
Let not thy strange diseases prey
On my life; but scare from my couch away
The yellow Plague’s imps; and safe let me rest
From that dread black demon, who racks the breast:
Nor force my throbbing temples to know
Thy sunbeam’s sudden and maddening blow;
Nor bid thy day-flood blaze too bright
On nerves so fragile, and brain so light:
And let me, returning in safety, view
Thy triumph again on the ocean blue;
And in Britain I’ll oft with flowers entwine
The Tropic Sovereign’s ebony shrine!
Was it but fancy? did He not frown,
And in anger shake his coral crown?
Gorgeous and slow the pomp moves on!
Low sinks the sun—and all is gone!
“And pray now do you mean to say that you really saw all this fine show?” Oh, yes, really, “in my mind’s eye, Horatio,” as Shakspeare says; or, if you like it better in Greek—
[Greek line] Odyssey, A.