Narrative of the Voyages Round the World, Performed by Captain James Cook Part 22

AN ODE.

BY MISS HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

Fair Otaheite, fondly bless'd By him, who long was doom'd to brave The fury of the polar wave, That fiercely mounts the frozen rock Where the harsh sea bird rears her nest, And learns the raging surge to mock-- There, Night, that loves eternal storm.

Deep and lengthen'd darkness throws, And untried Danger's doubtful form Its half seen horror shews!

While Nature, with a look so wild, Leans on the cliffs in chaos piled; That here, the awed, astonish'd mind Forgets, in that o'erwhelming hour, When her rude hands the storms unbind, In all the madness of her power; That she who spreads the savage gloom, That _she_ can dress in melting grace, In sportive Summer's lavish bloom, The awful terrors of her face; And wear the sweet perennial smile That charms in Otaheite's isle.

Yet, amid her fragrant bowers.

Where Spring, whose dewy fingers strew O'er other lands some fleeting flowers, Lives, in blossoms ever new; Whence arose that shriek of pain?

Whence the tear that flows in vain?-- Death! thy unrelenting hand Tears some transient human band-- Eternity! rich plant that blows Beneath a brighter, happier sky.

Time is a fading branch, that grows On thy pure stem, and blooms to die.

What art thou, Death?--terrific shade.

In unpierced gloom array'd!

Oft will daring Fancy stray Far in the central wastes, where Night Divides no cheering hour with Day, And unnamed horrors meet her sight; There thy form she dimly sees, And round the shape unfinish'd throws All her frantic vision shews When numbing fears her spirit freeze-- But can mortal voice declare If Fancy paints thee as thou art?

Thy aspect may a terror wear Her pencil never shall impart; The eye that once on thee shall gaze, No more its stiffen'd orb can raise; The lips that could thy power reveal, Shall lasting silence instant seal-- In vain the icy hand we fold, In vain the breast with tears we steep, The heart, that shared each pang, is cold, The vacant eye no more can weep.

Yet from the sh.o.r.e where Ganges rolls His wave beneath the torrid ray, To Earth's chill verge, where o'er the poles Fall the last beams of lingering day.

For ever sacred are the dead?

Sweet Fancy comes in Sorrow's aid, And bids the mourner lightly tread Where the insensate clay is laid: Bids partial gloom the sod invest By the mouldering relics press'd; Then lavish strews, with sad delight, What'er her consecrating power Reveres of herb, or fruit, or flower, And fondly weaves the various rite.

See! o'er Otaheite's plain Moves the long, funereal train; Slow the pallid corse they bear, Oft they breathe the solemn prayer: Where the ocean bathes the land, Thrice, and thrice, with pious hand, The priest, when high the billow springs, From the wave unsullied, flings Waters pure, that, sprinkled near, Sanctify the hallow'd bier: But never may one drop profane The relics with forbidden stain!

Now around the funeral shrine, Led in mystic mazes, twine Garlands, where the plantain weaves With the palm's luxuriant leaves; And o'er each sacred knot is spread The plant devoted to the dead.

Five pale moons with trembling light Shall gaze upon the lengthen'd rite; Shall see distracted Beauty tear The tresses of her flowing hair: Those shining locks, no longer dear, She wildly scatters o'er the bier; And careless gives the frequent wound That bathes in precious blood the ground.

When along the western sky, Day's reflected colours die, And Twilight rules the doubtful hour Ere slow-paced Night resumes her power; Mark the cloud that lingers still Darkly on the hanging hill!

There the disembodied mind Hears, upon the hollow wind, In unequal cadence thrown, Sorrow's oft repeated moan:-- Still some human pa.s.sions sway The spirit late immersed in clay; Still the faithful sigh is dear, Still beloved the fruitless tear!

Five waning moons, with wandering light, Have pa.s.s'd the shadowy bound of night, And mingled their departing ray With the soft fires of early day: Let the last sad rite be paid Grateful to the conscious shade: Let the priest, with pious care.

Now the wasted relics bear Where the Morai's awful gloom Shrouds the venerable tomb; Let the plantain lift its head, Cherish'd emblem of the dead; Slow and solemn, o'er the grave, Let the twisted plumage wave, Symbol hallow'd, and divine, Of the G.o.d who guards the shrine.

Hark!--that shriek of strange despair Never shall disturb the air.

Never, never shall it rise But for Nature's broken ties!-- Bright crescent! that with lucid smiles Gild'st the Morai's lofty pile, Whose broad lines of shadow throw A gloomy horror far below; Witness, O recording Moon!

All the rites are duly done; Be the faithful tribute o'er, The hovering spirit asks no more!

Mortals, cease the pile to tread, Leave, to silence, leave the dead.

But where may she who loves to stray Mid shadows of funereal gloom, And courts the sadness of the tomb, Where may she seek the proud Morai, Whose dear memorial points the place Where fell the friend of human race?

Ye lonely isles! on ocean's bound Ye bloom'd through time's long flight unknown, Till Cook the untract'd billow pa.s.s'd, Till he along the surges cast Philanthropy's connecting zone, And spread her lovliest blessings round.

Not like that murderous band he came, Who stain'd with blood the new found West Nor as, with unrelenting breast, From Britain's free enlighten'd land, Her sons now seek Angola's strand, Each tie most sacred to unbind, To load with chains a brother's frame, And plunge a dagger in the mind; Mock the sharp anguish bleeding there Of Nature in her last despair!

Great Cook! Ambition's lofty flame, So oft directed to destroy, Led _thee_ to circle with thy name, The smile of Love, and Hope, and Joy!

Those fires, that lend the dangerous blaze The devious comet trails afar, Might form the pure benignant rays That gild the morning's gentle star-- Sure, where the Hero's ashes rest, The nations late emerg'd from night Still base--with love's unwearied care That spot in lavish flowers is dress'd, And fancy's dear inventive rite Still paid with fond observance there!

Ah no!--around his fatal grave, No lavish flowers were ever strew'd No votive gifts were ever laid-- His blood a savage sh.o.r.e bedew'd!

His mangled limbs, one hasty prayer, One pious tear by friendship, paid, Were cast upon the raging wave; Deep in the wild abyss he lies.

Far from the cherish'd scene of home; Far, far from Her whose faithful sighs A husband's trackless course pursue; Whose tender fancy loves to roam With _him_ o'er lands and oceans new; And gilds with Hope's deluding form The gloomy pathway of the storm.

Yet, Cook! immortal wreaths are thine!

While Albion's grateful toil shall raise The marble tomb, the trophied bust, For ages faithful to its trust; While, eager to record thy praise, She bids the Muse of History twine The chaplet of undying fame, And tell each polish'd land thy worth: The ruder natives of the earth Shall oft repeat thy honour'd name; While infants catch the frequent sound, And learn to lisp the oral tale; Whose fond remembrance shall prevail Till Time has reach'd his destin'd bound.

THE END.