When to Laguna's[A] heights she deigns to stray, To myrtle bowers, and gardens ever gay, Where spring eternal on the fragrant grove Breathes the bright scenes of harmony and love; All eyes, attracted, by her graceful mein View her, the unrivall'd favorite of the green, And when, too soon, she would the garden leave, See Paradise forsaken by its Eve. [A] An ancient town once the capital. Four miles from the sea.--_Freneau's note._ Return bright nymph, attractive as admired, And be what Plato from your sex required; Mild as your clime, that rarely knows a storm, The angelic nature in a female form. Canary's[B] towns their splendid halls prepare, But all is dark, when Julia is not there. Not Oratava, on the sea-beat shore, In her gay circles finds one Julia more, Not high Lavelia[C] boasts so sweet a face; Not Garrachica could yourself replace; Not old Laguna can supply your loss, Nor yet the city of the holy-cross.[D] [B] Canary, a large island south eastward of Teneriffe.--_Ibid._ [C] An old city in the mountains.--_Ibid._ [D] Santa Cruz, the Capital; on the southeast quarter of the island.--_Ibid._ Where love and passion, from the world conceal'd: Devotion's winter has to frost congeal'd; Yet beauty, there, adorns the brilliant dome, Invites her loves, and bids her votaries come; Fair Santa-Cruz her beauty, too, commands, And, was but Julia there, unrivall'd stands. Flush'd with the blessings of the generous vine, The island bards, to honor you, combine; The stranger guest, all tongues, when you appear, Confess you, lovely, charming, all things dear; Among the rest, accept my homely lay: The last respect I can to Julia pay: A different subject soon my verse awaits, Contending powers, or disunited states; Yet shall remembrance renovate the past, And, when you die, your name unfading last: Though mists obscure, or oceans round me swell, To the deep seas I go, the world to tell That Julia, foremost, does this isle engage, And moves the first, bright Venus of my page. [186] From the edition of 1815. ON A RURAL NYMPH Descending from one of the Madeira mountains, with a bundle of fuel wood, on her head[187] Six miles, and more, with nimble foot She came from some sequestered spot, A handsome, swarthy, rustic maid With furze and fern, upon her head: The burthen hid a bonnet blue, The only hat, perhaps, she knew, No slippers on her feet were seen; Yet every step display'd a mein As if she might in courts appear, Though placed by wayward fortune here. An english man, who saw her, said, Your burthen is too heavy laid, Dear girl your lot is rather hard, And, after all, a poor reward: This is not labor suiting you, Come with me home to England go, And you shall have a coach and four, A silken gown--and something more.