THE BEAUTIES OF SANTA CRUZ[A][158] 1776 Sweet orange grove, the fairest of the isle, In thy soft shade luxuriously reclin'd, Where, round my fragrant bed, the flowrets smile, In sweet delusions I deceive my mind. But Melancholy's glooms assail my breast, For potent nature reigns despotic here;-- A nation ruin'd, and a world oppress'd, Might rob the boldest Stoic of a tear. [A] Or St. Croix, a Danish island (in the American Archipelago), commonly, tho' erroneously included in the cluster of the Virgin Islands; belonging to the crown of Denmark.--_Freneau's note_ [_Ed. 1809_]. 1 Sick of thy northern glooms, come, shepherd, seek More equal climes, and a serener sky: Why shouldst thou toil amid thy frozen ground, Where half year's snows, a barren prospect lie, 2 When thou mayst go where never frost was seen, Or north-west winds with cutting fury blow, Where never ice congeal'd the limpid stream, Where never mountain tipt its head with snow? 3 Twice seven days prosperous gales thy barque shall bear To isles that flourish in perpetual green, Where richest herbage glads each shady vale, And ever verdant plants on every hill are seen. 4 Nor dread the dangers of the billowy deep, Autumnal winds shall safely waft thee o'er; Put off the timid heart, or, man unblest, Ne'er shalt thou reach this gay enchanting shore. 5 Thus Judah's tribes beheld the promis'd land, While Jordan's angry waters swell'd between; Thus trembling on the brink I see them stand, Heav'n's type in view, the Canaanitish green. 6 Thus, some mean souls, in spite of age and care, Are so united to this globe below, They never wish to cross death's dusky main, That parting them and happiness doth flow. 7 Though reason's voice might whisper to the soul That nobler climes for man the gods design-- Come, shepherd, haste--the northern breezes blow, No more the slumbering winds thy barque confine. 8 From the vast caverns of old ocean's bed, Fair Santa Cruz, arising, laves her waist, The threat'ning waters roar on every side, For every side by ocean is embrac'd. 9 Sharp, craggy rocks repel the surging brine, Whose cavern'd sides by restless billows wore, Resemblance claim to that remoter isle [_Eolia_ Where once the winds' proud lord the sceptre bore. 10 Betwixt old Cancer and the mid-way line, In happiest climate lies this envied isle, Trees bloom throughout the year, streams ever flow, And fragrant Flora wears a lasting smile. 11 Cool, woodland streams from shaded clifts descend, The dripping rock no want of moisture knows, Supply'd by springs that on the skies depend, That fountain feeding as the current flows. 12