Five waning moons, with wandering light,
Have pass'd the shadowy bound of night,
And mingled their departing ray
With the soft fires of early day:
Let the last sad rite be paid
Grateful to the conscious shade:
Let the priest, with pious care.
Now the wasted relics bear
Where the Morai's awful gloom
Shrouds the venerable tomb;
Let the plantain lift its head,
Cherish'd emblem of the dead;
Slow and solemn, o'er the grave,
Let the twisted plumage wave,
Symbol hallow'd, and divine,
Of the god who guards the shrine.
Hark! - that shriek of strange despair
Never shall disturb the air.
Never, never shall it rise
But for Nature's broken ties! -
Bright crescent! that with lucid smiles
Gild'st the Morai's lofty pile,
Whose broad lines of shadow throw
A gloomy horror far below;
Witness, O recording Moon!
All the rites are duly done;
Be the faithful tribute o'er,
The hovering spirit asks no more!
Mortals, cease the pile to tread,
Leave, to silence, leave the dead.
But where may she who loves to stray
Mid shadows of funereal gloom,
And courts the sadness of the tomb,
Where may she seek the proud Morai,
Whose dear memorial points the place
Where fell the friend of human race?
Ye lonely isles! on ocean's bound
Ye bloom'd through time's long flight unknown,
Till Cook the untract'd billow pass'd,
Till he along the surges cast
Philanthropy's connecting zone,
And spread her lovliest blessings round.
Not like that murderous band he came,
Who stain'd with blood the new found West
Nor as, with unrelenting breast,
From Britain's free enlighten'd land,
Her sons now seek Angola's strand,
Each tie most sacred to unbind,
To load with chains a brother's frame,
And plunge a dagger in the mind;
Mock the sharp anguish bleeding there
Of Nature in her last despair!