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Taheite hears the clashing shell,
A deep, dread stillness marks thy way;
And here, while anguish wounds each beauteous face;
Ye nymphs, devote the lock, and strew the branch of
« But think, (Omai heav'd the figh)
Ah ! look beyond these liquid plains :
What griefs their pious hands employ,
Where Albion, queen of ocean, reigns,
Known by her zone of white, and azure stole, Parent of gen'rous worth, the grandeur of the soul.
Whilom, the chid the wind's delay,
Gazing o'er all the depths below,
And wove the crown of verdure gay,
To grace her lov'd advent'rer's brow;
But Death, who mocks our cares, around his tomb
Bids the funereal wreath among her garlands bloom.
Methinks, in glory's awful shrine,
(Where Death foregoes his wonted rage, And still in quick’ning sculpture shine
The mighty dead of ev'ry age) Methinks I see th’ illustrious seaman stand,
The wide earth in his ken, the plantane in his hand.
There are, who distant climes explore,
Led by the rav'nous lust of prey,
The storms of war and wild disinay;
Envious of Indian bliss, the hut and shade,
With deeds of fell design, their spoiling bands invade.
But lo! he comes, no ruffian foe;
While his bold prow bounds o'er the foaming deep, Cease ye rude threats of war, ye storms obsequious sleep.
Secure he steers the dubious way, ,
Th’ obedient tempeft sleeps in peace;
Though hostile war usurp the sea,
For him its wasteful thunders cease;
But yet, ah! yet does pale Misfortune wait,
Unpitying Fate ! unfriendly doom !
Is virtue born to toil, and die?
Or still for moons and moons to bloom,
In some bieít region of the sky ?
Why spreads the gladsome Sun his golden plains ?
'Tis there, her wand'rings past, unfading Virtue reigns.
Wafted to yon more blissful shore,
In fair Banana-bow'rs reclin'd,
He fills the choir of fouls, who bore
The toils of life, to bless mankind;
For whom, in ev'ry shade, th' immortal feast, The meed of earthly fame, falutes the ravilh'd taste.”