O the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.
O sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.
But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.
Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till, for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.
And now I'm old and going—I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again.
Kingsley.
[CV]
A WELCOME
Welcome, wild North-easter. Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black North-easter! O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day: Jovial wind of winter Turns us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy dyke; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild-fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snow-flakes Off the curdled sky. Hark! The brave North-easter! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow. Who can over-ride you? Let the horses go! Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams. Let the luscious South-wind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes. What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard grey weather Breeds hard English men. What's the soft South-wester? 'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their true-loves Out of all the seas: But the black North-easter, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world. Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. Come; and strong within us Stir the Vikings' blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God!
Kingsley.