[380] First published in the _New York Daily Advertiser_, Sept. 7, 1790, under the title, "Written at Cape Hatteras," and dated June, 1789. The last line of this version reads, "Hatteras maidens are not fair." It was republished in the _National Gazette_, March 19, 1792, under the title "Tormentina's Complaint," and dated "Castle Island, Bermuda, Jan. 20, 1789." In the 1809 edition, the text of which I have followed, it was grouped with the Amanda poems. HATTERAS[381] In fathoms five the anchor gone; While here we furl the sail, No longer vainly labouring on Against the western gale: While here thy bare and barren cliffs, O Hatteras, I survey, And shallow grounds and broken reefs-- What shall console my stay! The dangerous shoal, that breaks the wave In columns to the sky; The tempests black, that hourly rave, Portend all danger nigh: Sad are my dreams on ocean's verge! The Atlantic round me flows, Upon whose ancient angry surge No traveller finds repose! The Pilot comes!--from yonder sands He shoves his barque, so frail, And hurrying on, with busy hands, Employs both oar and sail. Beneath this rude unsettled sky Condemn'd to pass his years, No other shores delight his eye, No foe alarms his fears. In depths of woods his hut he builds, Devoted to repose, And, blooming, in the barren wilds His little garden grows: His wedded nymph, of sallow hue, No mingled colours grace-- For her he toils--to her is true, The captive of her face. Kind Nature here, to make him blest, No quiet harbour plann'd; And poverty--his constant guest, Restrains the pirate band: His hopes are all in yonder flock, Or some few hives of bees, Except, when bound for Ocracock,[A] Some gliding barque he sees: [A] All vessels from the northward that pass within Hatteras Shoals, bound for Newbern and other places on Palmico Sound, commonly in favourable weather take a Hatteras pilot to conduct them over the dangerous bar of Ocracock, eleven leagues north southwest of the cape.--_Freneau's note._ His Catharine then he quits with grief, And spreads his tottering sails, While, waving high her handkerchief, Her commodore she hails: She grieves, and fears to see no more The sail that now forsakes, From Hatteras' sands to banks of Core Such tedious journies takes! Fond nymph! your sighs are heav'd in vain; Restrain those idle fears: Can you--that should relieve his pain-- Thus kill him with your tears! Can absence, thus, beget regard, Or does it only seem? He comes to meet a wandering bard That steers for Ashley's stream. Though disappointed in his views, Not joyless will we part; Nor shall the god of mirth refuse The Balsam of the Heart: No niggard key shall lock up Joy-- I'll give him half my store Will he but half his skill employ To guard us from your shore.