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His lips persuasive charm the’uncultured youth,
Gay Eden of the south, thy tribute pay, And raise, in pomp of woe, thy Cook's Morait!
Cook observes, in his second voyage, that the women of Otaheite were grown more modest, and that the barbarons practice of destroying their children was lessened.
+ The morai is a kind of funeral altar which the people of Otaheite raise to the memory of their deceased friends. They bring to it a daily tribute of fruits, flowers, and the plamage of birds. The chief mourner wanders around it in a state of apparent distraction, shrieking furiously, and striking at intervals a shark's looth into her head. All people fly her, as she aims at wounding not only herself but others.
Bid mild Omiah bring his choices stores,
But ah! aloft on Albion's rocky steep, That frowns incumbent o'er the boiling deep, Solicitous and sad, a softer form Eyes the lone flood and deprecates the storm.Ill fated matron!—far, alas ! in vain Thy eager glances wander o'er the main !'Tis the vex'd billows that insurgent rave, Their white foam silvers yonder distant wave, 'Tis not his sails !--thy husband comes no more! His bones now whiten an accursed shore ! Retire,—for hark! the seagull shrieking soars, The lurid atmosphere portentous lours; Night's sullen spirit groans in every gale, And o'er the waters draws the darkling veil, Sighs in thy hair, and chills thy throbbing breast, Go, wretched mourner!—weep thy griefs to rest; Yet, though through life is lost each
fond delight, Though set thy earthly sun in dreary night, Oh! raise thy thoughts to yonder starry plain, And own thy sorrow selfish, weak, and vain;
Since, while Britannia, to his virtues just, [bust;
THE GRAVE OF HOWARD.
SPIRIT of Death! whose outstretch'd pennons
'Twas where the pestilence at thy command
'Twas there, with holy virtue's awful mien,
Friend of mankind! thy righteous task is o'er; The heart that throbb'd with pity beats no more.
Around the limits of this rolling sphere, Whene'er the just and good thy tale shall hear, A tear shall fall; alone, amidst the gloom Of the still dungeon, his long sorrow's tomb, The captive, mourning o'er his chain, shall bend To think the cold earth hides his only friend !He who with labour draws his wasting breath On the forsaken silent bed of death, Remembering thy last look and anxious eye, Shall gaze around, unvisited, and die. [shed,
Friend of mankind, farewell! these tears we So nature dictates, o'er thy earthly bed; Yet we forget not it was his high will, Who saw thee virtue's arduous task fulfil, Thy spirit from its toil at last should rest; So wills thy God, and what He wills is best!
Thou hast encounter'd dark disease's train, Thou hast conversed with poverty and pain, Thou hast beheld the dreariest forms of woe That through this mournful vale unfriended go; And pale with sympathy hast paused to hear The saddest plaints e'er told to human ear. Go then, the task fulfill'd, the trial o'er, Where sickness,want,and pain are known no more!
How awful did thy lonely track appear, Enlightening misery's benighted sphere !
As when an angel all serene goes forth To still the raging tempest of the north, The' embattled clouds that hid the struggling day Slow from his face retire in dark array; On the black waves, like promontories hung, A light, as of the orient morn, is fiung, Till blue and level heaves the silent brine, And the new lighted rocks at distance shine: E'en so didst thou go forth with cheering eye-Before thy looks the shades of misery fly; So didst thou hush the tempest, stilling wide Of human woe the loud lamenting tide.
Nor shall the spirit of those deeds expire, As fades the feeble spark of vital fire, But beam abroad, and cheer with lustre mild Humanity's remotest prospects wild, Till this frail orb shall from its sphere be hurl'd, Till final ruin hush the murmuring world, And all its sorrows, at the awful blast Of the’archangel's trump, be but as shadows past!
Relentless Time, that steals with silent tread, Shall tear away the trophies of the dead; Fame, on the pyramid's aspiring top, With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop; The feeble characters of Glory's hand Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand ; But not with these expire the sacred flame Of virtue, or the good man's awful name.
Howard! it matters not that far away From Albion's peaceful shore thy bones decay. Him it might please, by whose sustaining hand Thy steps were led through many a distant land,