APPENDIX.

  Yet from the shore where Ganges rolls 
  His wave beneath the torrid ray, 
  To Earth's chill verge, where o'er the poles 
  Fall the last beams of lingering day. 
  For ever sacred are the dead? 
  Sweet Fancy comes in Sorrow's aid, 
  And bids the mourner lightly tread 
  Where the insensate clay is laid: 
  Bids partial gloom the sod invest 
  By the mouldering relics press'd; 
  Then lavish strews, with sad delight, 
  What'er her consecrating power 
  Reveres of herb, or fruit, or flower, 
  And fondly weaves the various rite.

  See! o'er Otaheite's plain 
  Moves the long, funereal train; 
  Slow the pallid corse they bear, 
  Oft they breathe the solemn prayer: 
  Where the ocean bathes the land, 
  Thrice, and thrice, with pious hand, 
  The priest, when high the billow springs, 
  From the wave unsullied, flings 
  Waters pure, that, sprinkled near, 
  Sanctify the hallow'd bier: 
  But never may one drop profane 
  The relics with forbidden stain! 
  Now around the funeral shrine, 
  Led in mystic mazes, twine 
  Garlands, where the plantain weaves 
  With the palm's luxuriant leaves; 
  And o'er each sacred knot is spread 
  The plant devoted to the dead.

  Five pale moons with trembling light 
  Shall gaze upon the lengthen'd rite; 
  Shall see distracted Beauty tear 
  The tresses of her flowing hair: 
  Those shining locks, no longer dear, 
  She wildly scatters o'er the bier; 
  And careless gives the frequent wound 
  That bathes in precious blood the ground.

  When along the western sky, 
  Day's reflected colours die, 
  And Twilight rules the doubtful hour 
  Ere slow-paced Night resumes her power; 
  Mark the cloud that lingers still 
  Darkly on the hanging hill! 
  There the disembodied mind 
  Hears, upon the hollow wind, 
  In unequal cadence thrown, 
  Sorrow's oft repeated moan: - 
  Still some human passions sway 
  The spirit late immersed in clay; 
  Still the faithful sigh is dear, 
  Still beloved the fruitless tear!