[278] From the edition of 1809. The poem seems first to have appeared in the _National Gazette_ of January 12, 1792, with the following note: "The following lines were written some years ago (Sept. 1784) on board the brig _Dromilly_, in Kingston harbour, Jamaica; and sent to the keeper of the King's waterworks, near Rock fort; who had refused the writer a puncheon of water from a reservoir that was, by royal order, appropriated to the use of the royal navy." The present text is somewhat varied from that in the edition of 1795.
Written at Port-Royal, in the Island of Jamaica
Here, by the margin of the murmuring main, While her proud remnants I explore in vain, And lonely stray through these dejected lands Fann'd by the noon-tide breeze on burning sands, Where the dull Spaniard once possess'd these shades, And ports defended by his Pallisades[A]-- Tho' lost to us, Port Royal claims a sigh, Nor shall the Muse the unenvied gift deny. Of all the towns that grac'd Jamaica's isle This was her glory, and the proudest pile, Where toils on toils bade wealth's gay structures rise, And commerce swell'd her glory to the skies: St. Jago, seated on a distant plain, Ne'er saw the tall ship entering from the main, Unnotic'd streams her Cobra's[B] margin lave Where yond' tall plantains shade her glowing wave, And burning sands or rock surrounded hill Confess its founder's fears--or want of skill. While o'er these wastes with wearied step I go, Past scenes of death return, in all their woe,[281] O'er these sad shores in angry pomp he pass'd, Mov'd in the winds, and rag'd with every blast-- Here,[C] opening gulphs confess'd the almighty hand, Here, the dark ocean roll'd across the land, Here, piles on piles an instant tore away, Here, crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay, Whom fate scarce gave to end their noon-day feast, Or time to call the sexton, or the priest. Where yond' tall barque, with all her ponderous load, Commits her anchor to its dark abode, Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow To quench the sulphur of the caves below, Here midnight sounds torment the sailor's ear, And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts here,[282] Sad songs of woe prevent the hours of sleep, And Fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep; Dull Superstition hears the ghostly hum, Smit with the terrors of the world to come. What now is left of all thy boasted pride! Lost are thy glories that were spread so wide, A spit of sand is thine, by heaven's decree, And wasting shores that scarce resist the sea: Is this Port-Royal on Jamaica's coast, The Spaniard's envy, and the Briton's boast! A shatter'd roof o'er every hut appears, And mouldering brick-work prompts the traveller's fears; A church, with half a priest, I grieve to see, Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!-- One only inn with tiresome search I found Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round;-- His was the part to wait the impatient call, He was our landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all; His wary eyes on every side were cast, Beheld the present, and revolv'd the past, Now here, now there, in swift succession stole, Glanc'd at the bar, or watch'd the unsteady bowl. No sprightly lads or gay bewitching maids[283] Walk on these wastes or wander in these shades; To other shores past times beheld them go, And some are slumbering in the caves below; A negro tribe but ill their place supply, With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye;[284] A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town, Where banish'd Tories come to seek renown, Where worn-out slaves their bowls of beer retail, And sun-burnt strumpets watch the approaching sail.