Arrived at Madeira, the island of vines, Where mountains and vallies abound, Where the sun the wild juice of the cluster refines, To gladden the magical ground: As pensive I stray'd in her elegant shade, Now halting and now on the move, Old Bacchus I met, with a crown on his head, In the darkest recess of a grove. I met him with awe, but no symptom of fear As I roved by his mountains and springs, When he said with a sneer, "how dare you come here, You hater of despots and kings?-- Do you know that a prince, and a regent renown'd Presides in this island of wine? Whose fame on the earth has encircled it round And spreads from the pole to the line? Haste away with your barque: on the foam of the main To Charleston I bid you repair: There drink your Jamaica, that maddens the brain; You shall have no Madeira--I swear." "Dear Bacchus," (I answered) for Bacchus it was That spoke in this menacing tone: I knew by the smirk and the flush on his face It was Bacchus, and Bacchus alone-- "Dear Bacchus, (I answered) ah, why so severe?-- Since your nectar abundantly flows, Allow me one cargo--without it I fear Some people will soon come to blows: I left them in wrangles, disorder, and strife, Political feuds were so high, I was sick of their quarrels, and sick of my life, And almost requested to die." The deity smiling, replied, "I relent:-- For the sake of your coming so far, Here, taste of my choicest--go, tell them repent, And cease their political war. With the cargo I send, you may say, I intend To hush them to peace and repose; With this present of mine, on the wings of the wind You shall travel, and tell them, here goes A health to old Bacchus! who sends them the best Of the nectar his island affords, The soul of the feast and the joy of the guest, Too good for your monarchs and lords. No rivals have I in this insular waste, Alone will I govern the isle With a king at my feet, and a court to my taste, And all in the popular style. But a spirit there is in the order of things, To me it is perfectly plain, That will strike at the scepters of despots and kings, And only king Bacchus remain." [181] From edition of 1815. STANZAS WRITTEN AT THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA[182] On the fatal and unprecedented torrents of water which collected from the mountains on the ninth of October, 1803, and destroyed a considerable part of the city of Funchal, drowned a vast number of people, and damaged, to a great amount, several plantations and villages in that neighborhood. The rude attack, if none will tell, On Bacchus, in his favorite isle; If none in verse describe it well, If none assume a poet's style These devastations to display;-- Attend me, and perhaps I may.