Then stay and sip Canary wines,
While I return to oaks and pines,
To rail at kings, or court the muse,
To smoke a pipe, or turn recluse,
To think upon adventures past—
To think of what must come at last—
To drive the quill—and—to be brief,
To think no more of Teneriffe.—
How happy you who once a week,
Can storm a fort at Garrichique,
Or talk, familiar with the nuns
Secluded there with Levi's sons;
To see them smile, or hear them prate,
Or chant, and chat behind the grate!
All this is heaven, I half suspect,
And who would such a heaven neglect?
All I can say is what I mean,
May you embrace each Iphigene,
And hug and kiss them all the while,
These fair Calypsoes of the isle:
Then if what Sappho said, be true,
Blest as the immortal gods are you.
For me, not favor'd so by fate,
I venture not behind the grate:
There dragons guard the golden fleece,
And nymphs immured find no release:
Forbidden fruit you weekly see,
Forbidden fruit on every tree,
When he who tastes, may look for strife,
Where he who touches ventures life.
The jealous priests, with threatening eye
Look hard at all approaching nigh:
The monks have charge of brittle ware,
The friar bids you have a care;
That they alone the fruit may eat
That fills religion's last retreat:
The mother abbess looks as sour'd
As if you had the fruit devour'd,
And bids the stranger haste away,—
Not rich enough for fruit to pay.
How much unlike, our western fair,
Who breathe the sweets of freedom's air;
Go where they please, do what they will,
Themselves are their own guardians still:—
Then come, and on our distant shore
Some blooming rural nymph adore;
And do not make the day remote,
For time advances, quick as thought,
When thus some grave rebuke will say
When you approach the maiden gay:
'You should have courted in your prime,
'Our Anastasia's, at that time
'When blood ran quick, and Hymen said,
'Colin! my laws must be obey'd.'
Your card to slight, I'm much distrest,
Your card has robb'd me of my rest:
Should I attempt the nuns to accost
The priests might growl, and all be lost:
My cash might fail me when to pay;
No chance, perhaps, to run away;—
So, I decline the needless task
Return to Charleston, with the cask
Of wine, you send from Teneriffe,
To glad some hearts, and dry up grief:
I add, some dangerous neighbors here
May disappoint my hopes I fear;
The breakers near the vessel roll;
The lee-ward shore, the rocky shoal!
The whitening seas that constant lave
The craggy strand of Oratave;
The expected gale, the adjacent rock
Each moment threatens all our stock,
And Neptune, in his giant cup
Stands lurking near, to gulp it up.
But here's a health to Neptune's sons
Who man the yard—nor dream of nuns.
[184] From the edition of 1815.
ON SENIORA JULIA
Leaving a Dance, under Pretence of Drowsiness[185]