A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town, Where banish'd Tories come to seek renown, Where worn-out slaves their bowls of beer retail, And sun-burnt strumpets watch the approaching sail. Here (scarce escap'd the wild tornado's rage) Why sail'd I here to swell my future page! To these dull scenes with eager haste I came To trace the reliques of their ancient fame, Not worth the search!--what domes are left to fall, Guns, gales, and earthquakes shall destroy them all-- All shall be lost!--tho' hosts their aid implore, The Twelve Apostles[D] shall protect no more, Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish'd plain; No priest shall mutter, and no saint remain, Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade, Where the dark negro his dull music play'd, Or casts his view beyond the adjacent strand And points, still grieving, to his native land, Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore, And pants for countries he must see no more-- Where shall I go, what Lethe shall I find To drive these dark ideas from my mind! No buckram heroes can relieve the eye, And George's honours only raise a sigh-- Not even these walls a glad remembrance claim,[285] Where grief still wastes a half deluded dame, Whom to these coasts a British Paris bore, And basely left, lost virtue to deplore.-- In foreign climes detain'd from all she lov'd, By friends neglected, long by fortune prov'd, While sad and solemn pass'd the unwelcome day, What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay! Deceiv'd in all--for meanness could deceive-- Expecting still, and still condemn'd to grieve, She scarcely saw, to different hearts allied, That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride.-- Are griefs like thine to Florio's bosom known? Must these, alas, be ceaseless in your own?-- Life is a dream--its varying shades I see, But this base wanderer hardly dreams of thee. Ye mountains vast, whose heights the heaven sustain, Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston's plain; Where Nature still the toils of art transcends-- In this dull spot the fine delusion ends, Where burning sands are borne by every blast And these mean fabrics still bewail the past; Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside, And threatening moons advance the imperious tide:-- Ye stormy winds, awhile your wrath suspend, Who leaves the land, a bottle, and a friend, Quits this bright isle for yon' blue seas and sky, Or even Port-Royal quits--without a sigh! _Sept. 1784._ [A] Pallisades a narrow strip of land about seven miles in length, running nearly from north to south, and forming the harbours of Port Royal and Kingston.--_Freneau's note, 1809 edition._ [B] A small river falling into Kingston Bay, nearly opposite Port Royal--and which has its source in the hills beyond Spanish Town.--_Freneau's note, 1809 edition._