The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume II Part 55

SCENE, _The Island of Saba_[A]

[A] One of the windward Islands in the W. Indies. It is small, and appears like an immense cone, or sugar loaf, rising out of the surrounding ocean.--The inhabitants are of Dutch origin, and are equally strangers to the luxury and tyranny of the Sugar Islands.--Lat. 17 30' N.

Lon. 63 12' W.--_Freneau's note._

_Hermit_

Though many years on these tall cliffs residing I recollect not such a dreadful quarrel Between the seas and water-vexing tempests As now torments my ears, and pains my eyes-- Clouds, low suspended, seem to embrace the foam Of yonder angry ocean--bursting thunders, With their pale sheets of lightning, are as busy As though they meant to cleave this ma.s.s of nature, Proving at once the world's mortality-- But am I safe on this sea-girded island, Or can these sh.o.r.es, thus beaten, bear the shock Of such a bold a.s.sault--?

When universal ruin shall approach, Will the grand scene be more astonishing When thou, sky-pointing Saba, Shalt tremble on thy base most fearfully!-- Night comes!--I'll to my cavern in the mountain, Far from the torrent's roar and bursting billow; That cavern, where I oft have found repose Since on this barren isle, a shipwrecked stranger, I made my sole escape--Ha! what are these!

A barque half buried in the spouting surge Comes rushing towards the isle, impelled by winds That scorn all motives of compa.s.sion.

Hark! now she strikes the iron pointed reef Foundering; the horrid surge that breaks upon her Has sealed their doom, and hope itself forsakes them Man is too weak to combat with the power Of these mad elements, that conquer all, Ending the day light of our misery!-- Yes, yes--I'll to my haunt, for scenes like these Pain the shocked soul and damp all resolution;-- Or, shall I to the sh.o.r.e, while day remains, And search among the sh.e.l.l-incrusted coral, Lest if by some great chance or miracle Some wretch survives upon the ragged rocks, Who knowing not of human kind residing On this sequestered, unfrequented isle, Tired in contending with the angry billows And beaten by the surge the whole night through For want of such relief, may die ere morning-- Perdition! three I see upon the rocks Clinging, to keep off death, while the rude billow Swells o'er their heads, insultingly victorious: Now from the reef upborne I see them struggle, Heaven grant, successfully!--they labour on, Now headlong to the sh.o.r.e, now back they go Despairing to the main!--now, now they land Safe in that calm recess, a narrow bay To them the heaven from impending ruin-- So what are you?--

_First Mariner_

If thou art an inhabitant of the isle, Lend your kind aid to three half perished wretches Of threescore souls, the only three remaining-- And if thou knowest of any sheltered spot Where from these horrid blasts and water spouts We may retire to pa.s.s the long dull night: Or if thou knowest of any standing pool Or running stream, or earth-supported spring, O tell us! and, as nothing more remains, Our grat.i.tude must be thy sole reward.

_Hermit_

Among the hills, on their declivities Full many a sylvan haunt I have espied Ere now, in wandering when the heaven was bright; But springs or running streams abound not here The skies alone supply the hollowed rock From whence I drain my annual full supply: Yet to my cavern you shall all resort To taste a hermit's hospitality-- If you have strength, ascend this winding path And amongst these rugged rocks, still following me, We soon shall reach a safe retreat, removed Alike from noisy seas, and mountain torrents.

_Second Mariner_

Lo! here the tall palmettoe, and the cedar, The lime tree, and sweet scented shrubs abundant With mingling branches, form a blest abode; Here, bleating lambs crowd to the evening fold And goats and kids, that wander o'er the hills, Vext by the storm, herd to the social hermit; In neighbouring groves the juicy lemon swells, The golden orange charms the admiring eye, And the rich cocoa yields her milky stream.

_Hermit_

Here, strangers, here repose your wearied limbs While some dead boughs I bring from yonder thicket, To wake the friendly blaze.--To drain the dams Of these impatient kids, be next my care: The cocoa's milky flesh, dried pulse and roots Shall be your fare to night; and when to-morrow Dispells the gloom, and this tornado ceases, We'll search along the sh.o.r.es, and find where lie The bodies of your dear and lost companions, That so we may commit them to the dust, And thus obliterate from our remembrance The horrid havock that this storm occasioned.

_Third Mariner_

O good old man, how do I honour thee!

My future days, my services are your's; For you, will I be earlier than the sun To bring you sticks to light the morning fire; For you, will I attempt these dangerous cliffs And climb on high to pluck the blushing plum; For you will I from yonder rocky height Drain chrystal waters, to delight your taste: But now be kind; I wish to hear you tell What chance or fortune brought you to these sh.o.r.es: Whether alone on these rough craggs you dwell Where wandering mist is gathered into showers, Or whether town or village decks the plain; Or is there sheltered port, where swelling sails Lodge lofty ships, from hurricanes secure, Fenced in by reefs, or locked by neighbouring hills.

_Hermit_

No town or village owns this scanty soil, Nor round its coast one safe recess is seen, Where lofty ship, or barque of meaner freight Might rest secure, untroubled by the winds, Which still pursue the restless surge that pours, And spits its venom, on these ragged sh.o.r.es; Nor in these woody wilds, till you were wrecked, Except myself, did Christian man reside, Wandering from Europe to these Indian isles So late discovered on the world's green end.-- All lies as Nature formed it, rough throughout, And chance has planted here this garden wild, For such as I, who wandering from the world; Cities, and men, and civilized domains, The farther distant, find the bliss more pure.

_Third Mariner_

In such a sad retreat, and all alone!-- To hold no converse but with senseless trees, To have no friendship but with wandering goats, And worthless reptiles that infest the ground-- Can man be happy in so dull a scene?

_Hermit_

To the steep summit of this slighted isle I often climb at early dawn of day, And o'er the vast expanse I throw my view, Not idly thence the busy scene surveying-- Vast fleets I sometimes see, each kept at bay, Or joining both in angry conversation, Their object avarice half, and half ambition-- What is it all to me? what are they seeking That can give more than a sufficiency?-- That object I have here which they pursue, Grasping it, miser-like, in my embraces-- The stream distilling from the shaded cliff, And fruits mature from trees by Nature planted, And contemplation, heaven-born contemplation!

These are my riches! I am wealthier far Than Spain's proud fleets, that load the groaning ocean-- Wait you in yonder cave--I will return-- My herd of goats is wandering in the wild, And I must house them, ere the close of day. (_Exit_)

_First Mariner_

Who can this hermit be--what doth he here?

In such a dismal cell who would inhabit Thus lonely, who has crowds and cities seen-- Is he some savage offspring of the isle, The mountain goat his food, his G.o.d the sun; Some wretch produced from mingled heat and moisture.

Full brother to the hungry pelican; His friend, some monster of the adjacent wood; His wife, some sorceress, red haired hag from h.e.l.l; His children, serpents, scorpions, centipedes--

_Third Mariner_

It was but now, (he spoke before he thought) he told me, That he is richer than the fleets of Spain That burden the wide bosom of the ocean; And then he seemed so pleased and satisfied, Boasting himself the happiest of mankind.

_Second Mariner_

Where should this wealth be hid--his cave shows none: A prayer book and a cross, a string of beads, A bed of moss, a cap, an earthen jug, And some few goat skins, furnish out his cave: But still this humble guise of poverty Vast sums of splendid riches may conceal: The flooring of his den is a loose sand-- Searching a fathom deep may shew strange things, While we, so long pursuing, hit on fortune.-- Perhaps this hermit is some b.l.o.o.d.y pirate, Who having plundered friends and foes, alike, Has brought his booty here, to bury it.

_First Mariner_

Lo! there he comes, driving his goats before him: He means to fence them from the tempest's rage Under the shelter of those tufted cedars: It does, indeed, appear most possible, That in this cavern rests his plundered wealth: When sleep has locked his senses in repose We'll seize him on his couch, and binding him, Cast him from yonder jutting promontory That hangs a hundred fathoms o'er the deep-- Thus, shall his fate prevent discovery.

_Second Mariner_

Your project pleases me--it is most wrong That such a savage should enjoy such h.o.a.rds Of useful wealth, he has not heart to use:-- He builds no ships, employs no mariners; But, like a miser, hides the ill-gotten store, And had he died before we wandered hither His gold had perished, and none been the wiser.

_Third Mariner_

While you observe his motions, fellow sufferers, Of twisted bark I'll make a sett of thongs Wherewith to bind him at the midnight hour, Lest waking, he should struggle to be free And slip our hands before we gain the summit From whence we mean to plunge his tawny carcase:-- There, there he comes--"Now, hermit, now befriend us, "For cruel, merciless hunger gnaws our vitals, "And every mischief that can man dishearten "Is ripe to drive us into desperation!"

_Hermit_

Have patience, till from yonder arched grotto I bring my bowls of milk, and seasoned roots, And fruits I plucked before the day was high: Now, friends, enjoy my hospitality: All's at your service, wretched shipwrecked men; And when you've satisfied the rage of hunger Repose on these soft skins; your sea-beat limbs Demand the aid of kind refreshing sleep: I'll to my evening prayers, as I am wont, And early dreams;--for travelling o'er the hills, And pelted by the storm the whole day past, My knees grow feeble, and I wish for rest. (_Exit_)

_Second Mariner_

Yes, yes--first pray, and then repose in peace, Hermit of Saba, ne'er to wake again!

Or should you wake, it must be in convulsions, Tossed from the peak of yonder precipice, Transfixt on pointed rocks, most bloodily.

_Third Mariner_

Now, now's the time: he sleeps: I hear him snore-- This hidden gold has so possessed my brain, That I, at all events, must handle it: Yet should the hermit 'wake while thus engaged, Sad mischief might ensue: his nervous arm (More than a match for our exhausted vigour) Might exercise most horrible revenge!

Long practising among these rugged mountains, Pursuing goats, bounding from rock to rock, And cleaving trees to feed his evening fire, His nerves and blood are all activity: And then he is of so robust a fabrick That we should be mere children in his hands, Whirling us from the precipice at pleasure, (Thus turning on ourselves our own designs) Or catching up some fragment of a rock Grind into atoms our pale, quivering limbs; Taking full vengeance on ingrat.i.tude.

_First Mariner_

Fast bound in chains of sleep, I first a.s.sail him; This knotty club shall give the unerring blow; You follow on, and boldly second me!

Thus--comrades--thus!--that stroke has crushed his brain!

He groans! he dies?--now bear him to the summit Of yon' tall cliff, and having thence dislodged him, Uninterrupted we shall dig his riches, Heirs to the wealth and plenty of his cave.

_Second Mariner_ (_conscience struck_)

'Tis done, 'tis done--the hermit is no more:-- Say nothing of this deed, ye hills, ye trees, But let eternal silence brood upon it.

O, base, base, base!!--why was I made a man, And not some prowling monster of the forest, The worst vile work of Nature's journeymen!

Ye lunar shadows! no resemblance yield From craggy pointed rock, or leafy bush, That may remind me of this murdered hermit.

_Third Mariner_