When, torn by waves, and conquered by the blast, Art strove in vain, and ruin seized each mast. Now, while the winds their wonted aid deny, For other ports, from day to day, we try Strive, all we can, to gain the unwilling shore, Dream still of you--the faithful chart explore; See other groves, in happier climates placed Untouched their bloom, and not one flower defaced. Did Nature, there, a heaven of pleasure shew, Could they be welcome, if not shared with you?-- Lost are my toils--my longing hopes are vain: Yet, 'midst these ills, permit me to complain, And half regret, that, finding fortune fail, I left your cottage--to direct the sail: Unmoved, amidst this elemental fray, Let me, once more, the muses' art essay, Once more--amidst these scenes of Nature's strife, Catch at her forms and mould them into life; By Fancy's aid, to unseen coasts repair, And fondly dwell on absent beauty there. [332] On Jan. 20, 1789, Freneau was at Castle Ireland, Bermuda, where eleven years before he had passed five delightful weeks in the family of the English Governor. The above lines were written on the tempestuous return voyage, doubtless inspired by her who soon afterward became his wife. The text follows the 1809 version. PHILANDER: OR THE EMIGRANT[333] While lost so long to his Arcadian shade, Careless of fortune and of fame he stray'd, Philander to a barbarous region came And found a partner in a colder shade, Fair as Amanda; and perhaps might claim With her the impassion'd soul, and friendship's holy flame; For sprightly loves upon her bosom play'd, And youth was in her blush, and every shepherd said She was a modest and accomplish'd dame. What have I done, (the wandering shepherd cry'd) Thus to be banish'd from a face so fair, (For now the frosts had spoil'd the daisies' pride, And he once more for roving did prepare) Ah, what have I to do with swelling seas Who once could pipe upon the hollow reed?-- I take no joy in such rude scenes as these, Nor look with pleasure on the vagrant weed That gulphy streams from rugged caverns bore, Which floats thro' every clime, and never finds a shore! But other fields and other flowers were mine, 'Till wild disorder drove me from the plain. And the black dogs of war were seen to join, Howl o'er the soil, and dispossess the swain: Why must I leave these climes of frost and snow?-- Were it not better in these glooms to stay, And, while on high the autumnal tempests blow, Let others o'er the wild seas take their way, And I with my Livinia's tresses play?-- Ah, no, no, no! the imperious wave demands That I must leave these shores, and lose these lands And southward to the high equator stray: But Fancy now has lost her vernal hue; See Nature in her wintry garb array'd-- And where is that fine dream which once she drew While yet by Cambria's stream she fondly play'd!