LANDING.
When first I gain’d the Atlantic shore,
And bade farewell to ocean’s roar,
What gracious power my bosom eased,
My senses soothed, my fancy pleased,
And bade me feel, in whispers bland,
No Stranger in a Stranger-land?
’T was not at length my goal to reach,
And tread Jamaica’s burning beach:
’T was not from Neptune’s chains discharged,
To move, think, feel with powers enlarged:
Nor that no more my bed the wave,
Ere morning dawn’d, might prove my grave:—
A livelier chord was struck: a spell,
While heav’d my heart with gentle swell,
Crept o’er my soul with magic sweet,
And made each pulse responsive beat.
No Sheep-bell e’er to Pilgrim’s ear,
Wandering in woods unknown and drear;
No midnight lay to Spanish maid,
Conscious by whom the lute was played;
Not on the breeze the sounding wings
Of him who nurture homeward brings
To mother-bird, whose callow brood
Pain her fond heart with chirps for food,—
E’er seem’d more charming than to me,
(When two long months had past at sea,
During whose course my thirsty ear
No softer voice, no strain could hear
Nearer allied to love and pity,
Than the strong bass of seaman’s ditty,)
Seem’d by the sea-gale round me flung,
Approaching sounds of female tongue!
No, Venus, no! Small right hast thou
To claim for this my grateful vow;
Nor on thine altar now bestows
My hand the gift of one poor rose!
No eager glance, no heighten’d dye
Blush’d on my cheek, nor fired mine eye;
I heard, nor felt, at each soft note,
Flutter my heart, and swell my throat.
Those sounds but spoke of bosom-balm,
Of pity prompt and kindness calm;
Of tender care, of anxious zeal;
For here were breasts whose hearts could feel!
’T was as to guest in stranger halls
If voice of friend a welcome calls:
Such pleasure soothes the starting maid,
Who finds some jewel long mislaid;
Pleasure, which blessed dew supplies,
To ease the heart, and float the eyes;
As when in pain attentions prove
A mother’s care, a sister’s love.
To Woman, Life its value owes!
Robb’d of her love, its dawn and close
Would find nor aid, nor soothing care;
Its middle course no joys would share.
Childhood in vain would thirst and cry,
And Age, unheeded, moan and die;
And Manhood frown to see the hours
Weave scentless wreaths unblest with flowers.
It beam’d on cheek of sable dye;
No matter, since ’t was woman’s eye!
Each phrase the tortured language broke;
Enough for me—’t was woman spoke!
Once raven locks my temples wore;
Time has pluck’d many, sorrow more:
Through forty springs (thank God they’re run)
These weary eyes have seen the sun;
And in that space full room is found
For flowers to fade, and thorns to wound.
But now, (all fancy’s freaks supprest,
Each thread-bare sneer and wanton jest,)
With hand on heart in serious tone,
With thanks, with truth, I needs must own,
Wide as I’ye roam’d the world around,
Roam where I would, I ever found,
The worst of Women still possest
More virtues than of Men the best.
And, oh! if shipwreck proves my lot,
Guide me, kind Heav’n, to some lone cot
Where woman dwells! Her hand she’ll stretch
In pity to the stranger-wretch;
If virtuous want mine eye surveys,
Nor mine the power his head to raise,
I’ll pour the tale in woman’s ear,
She’ll aid, and, aiding, drop a tear.
And when my life-blood sickness drains,
And racks my nerves, and fires my brains,
What kinder juice, what livelier power,
Than mineral yields, or opiate flower,
Can make me e’en in pain rejoice?—
A few sweet words in that sweet voice!