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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=407972" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Morai</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">FAIR OTAHEITE , fondly blest<br>By him who long was doom'd to brave<br>The fury of the Polar wave,<br>That fiercely mounts the frozen rock<br>Where the harsh sea-bird rears her nest,<br>And learns the raging surge to mock--<br>There Night, that loves eternal storm,<br>Deep and lengthened darkness throws,<br>And untried danger's doubtful form<br>Its half-seen horror shews!<br>While Nature, with a look so wild,<br>Leans on the cliffs, in chaos pil'd,<br>That here the aw'd, astonish'd mind<br>Forgets, in that o'erwhelming hour,<br>When her rude hands the storms unbind<br>In all the madness of her power,<br>That she who spreads the savage gloom,<br>That she can dress in melting grace,<br>In sportive Summer's lavish bloom,<br>The awful terrors of her face;<br>And wear the sweet perennial smile<br>That charms in OTAHEITE'S isle.<br>Yet, amid her fragrant bowers,<br>Where Spring, whose dewy fingers strew<br>O'er other lands some fleeting flowers,<br>Lives, in blossoms ever new;<br>Whence arose that shriek of pain?<br>Whence the tear that flows in vain?<br>Death! thy unrelenting hand<br>Bursts some transient, human band.<br>What art thou, Death?--terrific shade,<br>In unpierc'd gloom array'd!--<br>Oft will daring Fancy stray<br>Far in the central wastes, where night<br>Divides no cheering hour with day,<br>And unnam'd horrors meet her sight;<br>There thy form she dimly sees,<br>And round the shape unfinish'd throws<br>All her frantic vision shews,<br>When numbing fears her spirit freeze.<br>But can mortal voice declare,<br>If Fancy paints thee as thou art?--<br>Thy aspect may a terror wear<br>Her pencil never shall impart;<br>The eye that once on thee shall gaze<br>No more its stiffen'd orb can raise;<br>The lips that could thy power reveal,<br>Shall lasting silence instant seal.<br>In vain the icy hand we fold,<br>In vain the breast with tears we steep,<br>The heart that shar'd each pang is cold,<br>The vacant eye no more can weep.<br>Yet from the shore where Ganges rolls<br>His waves beneath the torrid ray,<br>To earth's chill verge, where o'er the poles<br>Falls the last beam of ling'ring day,<br>For ever sacred are the dead!<br>Sweet Fancy comes in sorrow's aid,<br>And bids the mourner lightly tread<br>Where th' insensate clay is laid;<br>Bids partial gloom the sod invest<br>By the mould'ring relics prest;<br>There lavish strews with sad delight,<br>Whate'er her consecrating power<br>Reveres, of herb or fruit, or flower,<br>And fondly weaves the various rite.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">See! o'er OTAHEITE'S plain<br>Moves the long funereal train;<br>Slow the pallid corse they bear,<br>Oft they breathe the solemn prayer.<br>Where the Ocean bathes the land,<br>Thrice and thrice, with pious hand,<br>The priest, where high the billow springs,<br>From the wave unsullied, flings<br>Waters pure, that sprinkled near,<br>Sanctify the hallow'd bier;<br>But never may one drop profane<br>The relics with forbidden stain!<br>Now around the fun'ral shrine,<br>Led in mystic mazes, twine<br>Garlands, where the plantain weaves<br>With the palm's luxuriant leaves,<br>And o'er each sacred knot is spread<br>The plant devoted to the dead.<br>Five pale moons with trembling light<br>Shall gaze upon the lengthen'd rite;<br>Shall see distracted beauty tear<br>The tresses of her flowing hair;<br>Those graceful locks, no longer dear,<br>She wildly scatters o'er the bier,<br>And frantic gives the frequent wound<br>That purples with her blood the ground!<br>Where along the western sky<br>Day's reflected colours die,<br>And twilight rules the doubtful hour<br>Ere slow-pac'd night resumes her power,<br>Mark the cloud that lingers still<br>Darkly on the hanging hill:<br>There the disembodied mind<br>Hears, upon the hollow wind,<br>Low, in mournful cadence thrown,<br>Sorrow's oft repeated moan--<br>Still some human passions sway<br>The spirit, late immers'd in clay;<br>Still the hopeless sigh is dear,<br>Still belov'd the fruitless tear!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Five waning moons with wand'ring light<br>Have past the shadowy bound of night,<br>And mingled their departing ray<br>With the soft fires of early day;<br>Let the last sad rites be paid,<br>Grateful to the conscious shade.<br>Let the priest with pious care<br>Now the wasted relics bear,<br>Where the MORAI'S awful gloom<br>Shrouds the consecrated tomb.<br>Let the plantain lift its head;<br>Cherish'd emblem of the dead;<br>Slow, and solemn, o'er the grave<br>Let the twisted plumage wave,<br>Symbol hallow'd and divine<br>Of the god who guards the shrine.<br>Hark!--that shriek of strange despair<br>Never shall disturb the air;<br>Never, never shall it rise,<br>But for Nature's broken ties!--<br>Bright Crescent! that with lucid smile<br>Gild'st the MORAI'S lofty pile;<br>Whose broad lines of shadow throw<br>A gloomy horror far below,<br>Witness, O recording moon,<br>All the rites are duly done;<br>Be the faithful tribute o'er,<br>The hov'ring spirit asks no more!<br>Mortals, cease the pile to tread,<br>Leave to silence, leave the dead.<br>But where may she who loves to stray<br>'Mid shadows of funereal gloom,<br>And courts the sadness of the tomb,<br>Where may she seek that proud MORAI ,<br>Whose dear memorial points the place<br>Where fell the friend of human race?<br>Ye lonely Isles, on Ocean's bound,<br>Ye bloom'd thro' Time's long flight unknown,<br>Till Cook the untrack'd billow past!<br>Till he along the surges cast<br>Philanthropy's connecting zone,<br>And spread her loveliest blessings round!--<br>Not like that murd'rous band he came,<br>Who stain'd with blood the new-found West;<br>Nor as, with unrelenting breast,<br>From BRITAIN'S free, enlightened land,<br>Her sons now seek ANGOLA'S strand,* <br>The ties most sacred to unbind,--<br>To load with chains a brother's frame,<br>And plunge a dagger in the mind;<br>Mock the sharp anguish bleeding there<br>Of nature in her last despair!<br>Great COOK ! Ambition's lofty flame,<br>So oft directed to destroy,<br>Led thee to circle with thy name<br>The smile of love, and hope, and joy!<br>Those fires that lend the dang'rous blaze<br>The devious comet trails afar,<br>Might form the pure, benignant rays<br>That gild the morning's gentle star.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sure, where the hero's ashes rest,<br>The nations late emerg'd from night<br>Still haste--with love's unwearied care,<br>That spot in lavish flowers is drest,<br>And fancy's dear, inventive rite<br>Still paid with fond observance there?--<br>Ah, no! around his fatal grave<br>No lavish flowers were ever strew'd,<br>No votive gift was ever laid--<br>His blood a savage shore bedew'd!<br>His mangled limbs, one hasty prayer,<br>One pious tear by friendship paid,<br>Were cast upon the raging wave!<br>Deep in the wild abyss he lies,<br>Far from the cherish'd scene of home;<br>Far, far from her whose faithful sighs<br>A husband's trackless course pursue;<br>Whose tender fancy loves to roam<br>With him o'er lands and oceans new;<br>And gilds with hope's deluding form<br>The gloomy pathway of the storm!<br>Yet, Cook! immortal wreathes are thine!<br>While Albion's grateful toil shall raise<br>The marble tomb, the trophied bust,<br>For ages faithful to its trust;<br>While, eager to record thy praise,<br>She bids the muse of history twine<br>The chaplet of undying fame,<br>And tell each polish'd land thy worth,<br>The ruder natives of the earth<br>Shall oft repeat thy honour'd name,<br>While infants catch the frequent sound,<br>And learn to lisp the oral tale,<br>Whose fond remembrance shall prevail<br>Till Time has reach'd her destin'd bound!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Helen+Maria+Williams">Helen Maria Williams</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=407972" data-title="The Morai de Helen Maria Williams" data-description="FAIR OTAHEITE , fondly blest
By him who long was doom'd to brave
The fury of the Polar wave,
That fiercely mounts the frozen rock
Where the harsh sea-bird rears her nest,
And learns the raging surge to mock--
There Night, that loves eternal storm,..."></div>
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