Written at Port-Royal, in the Island of Jamaica
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,
And ports defended by his Pallisades[A]—
Tho' lost to us, Port Royal claims a sigh,
Nor shall the Muse the unenvied gift deny.
Of all the towns that grac'd Jamaica's isle
This was her glory, and the proudest pile,
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,
Unnotic'd streams her Cobra's[B] margin lave
Where yond' 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 woe,[281]
O'er these sad shores in angry pomp he pass'd,
Mov'd in the winds, and rag'd with every blast—
Here,[C] opening gulphs confess'd the almighty hand,
Here, the dark ocean roll'd across the land,
Here, piles on piles an instant tore away,
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 yond' tall barque, with all her ponderous load,
Commits her anchor to its dark abode,
Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow
To quench the sulphur of the caves below,
Here midnight sounds torment the sailor's ear,
And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts here,[282]
Sad songs of woe prevent the hours of sleep,
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 thy boasted pride!
Lost are thy glories that were spread so wide,
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,
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;—
His was the part to wait the impatient call,
He was our landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all;
His wary eyes on every side were cast,
Beheld the present, and revolv'd the past,
Now here, now there, in swift succession stole,
Glanc'd at the bar, or watch'd the unsteady bowl.
No sprightly lads or gay bewitching maids[283]
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;
A negro tribe but ill their place supply,
With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye;[284]
A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town,
Where banish'd Tories come to seek renown,
Where worn-out slaves their bowls of beer retail,
And sun-burnt strumpets watch the approaching sail.
Here (scarce escap'd the wild tornado's rage)
Why sail'd I here to swell my future page!
To these dull scenes with eager haste I came
To trace the reliques 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!—tho' hosts their aid implore,
The Twelve Apostles[D] shall protect no more,
Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish'd plain;
No priest shall mutter, and no saint remain,
Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade,
Where the dark negro his dull music play'd,
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
To drive these dark ideas from my mind!
No buckram heroes can relieve the eye,
And George's honours only raise a sigh—
Not even these walls a glad remembrance claim,[285]
Where grief still wastes a half deluded dame,
Whom to these coasts a British Paris bore,
And basely left, lost virtue to deplore.—
In foreign climes detain'd from all she lov'd,
By friends neglected, long by fortune prov'd,
While sad and solemn pass'd the unwelcome day,
What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay!
Deceiv'd in all—for meanness could deceive—
Expecting still, and still condemn'd to grieve,
She scarcely saw, to different hearts allied,
That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride.—
Are griefs like thine to Florio's bosom known?
Must these, alas, be ceaseless in your own?—
Life is a dream—its varying shades I see,
But this base wanderer hardly dreams of thee.
Ye mountains vast, whose heights the heaven sustain,
Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston's plain;
Where Nature still the toils of art transcends—
In this dull spot the fine delusion ends,
Where burning sands are borne by every blast
And these mean fabrics still bewail the past;
Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside,
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!
Sept. 1784.
[A] Pallisades a narrow strip of land about seven miles in length, running nearly from north to south, and forming the harbours of Port Royal and Kingston.—Freneau's note, 1809 edition.
[B] A small river falling into Kingston Bay, nearly opposite Port Royal—and which has its source in the hills beyond Spanish Town.—Freneau's note, 1809 edition.
[C] Old Port-Royal contained more than 1500 buildings, and these for the most part large and elegant. This unfortunate town was for a long time reckoned the most considerable mart of trade in the West Indies. It was destroyed on the 17th of June, 1692, by an earthquake which in two minutes sunk the far greater part of the buildings; in which disaster near 3000 people lost their lives.—Freneau's note.
[D] A Battery so called, on the side of the harbour opposite to Port-Royal.—Freneau's note.
[280] First published in the 1788 edition, the text of which I have followed. For the 1809 edition Freneau made numerous verbal changes. On an average, he changed a word in every line. No poem of Freneau's shows more clearly his peculiar mania for revision. In the 1795 edition the title is "Port Royal," in the 1809 edition it is "Written at Port Royal, in the Island of Jamaica—September, 1784."
[281] The edition of 1809 adds:
"Here for their crimes (perhaps) in ages fled,
Some vengeful fiend, familiar with the dead—"