To me, alas! so far removed, What raptures, once, that scenery gave, Ere wandering yet from all I loved, I sought a deeper, drearier wave. Your absent charms my thoughts employ: I sigh to think how sweet you sung, And half adore the painted toy That near my careless heart you hung. Now, fettered fast in icy fields, In vain we loose the sleeping sail; The frozen wave no longer yields, And useless blows the favouring gale. Yet, still in hopes of vernal showers, And breezes, moist with morning dew, I pass the lingering, lazy hours, Reflecting on the spring--and you. [378] This poem appeared in the _Freeman's Journal_, Jan. 29, 1789, under the title: "Stanzas written at Baltimore in Maryland, Jan. 1789, by Capt. P. Freneau." It was republished in the _Daily Advertiser_, Jan. 5, 1790, under the title "To Harriot." It was used in the editions of 1795 and 1809. The text follows the latter edition. [379] "Monmouth's."--_Ed. 1789._ "Morven's vale."--_Ed. 1790._ AMANDA'S COMPLAINT[380] "In shades we live, in shades we die, Cool zephyrs breathe for our repose; In shallow streams we love to play, But, cruel you, that praise deny Which you might give, and nothing lose, And then pursue your destined way. Ungrateful man! when anchoring here, On shore you came to beg relief; I shewed you where the fig trees grow, And wandering with you, free from fear, To hear the story of your grief I pointed where the cisterns are, And would have shewn, if streams did flow! The Men that spurned your ragged crew, So long exposed to Neptune's rage-- I told them what your sufferings were: Told them that landsmen never knew The trade that hastens frozen age, The life that brings the brow of care. A lamb, the loveliest of the flock, To your disheartened crew I gave, Life to sustain on yonder deep-- Sighing, I cast one sorrowing look When on the margin of the main You slew the loveliest of my sheep. Along your native northern shores, From cape to cape, where'er you stray, Of all the nymphs that catch the eye, They scarce can be excelled by our's-- Not in more fragrant shades they play;-- The summer suns come not so nigh. Confess your fault, mistaken swain, And own, at least, our equal charms-- Have you no flowers of ruddy hue, That please your fancy on the plain?-- Would you not guard those flowers from harm, If Nature's self each picture drew! Vain are your sighs--in vain your tears, Your barque must still at anchor lay, And you remain a slave to care; A thousand doubts, a thousand fears, 'Till what you said, you shall unsay, Bermudian damsels are not fair!