Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Americas: Vol. XXX. 1876–79.
Ode on Revisiting Cuba
By Maria Brooks (1795?–1845)I
To me; thy limpid seas, thy fragrant shores,
Whither I ’ve sighed to come
And make a tranquil home,
Have lost to me their charm; my heart deplores,
Vainly, of two it loved, the melancholy doom.
On earth responded to the love of mine,
Through eyes of heavenly blue,
More deeply, fondly true,
Haply, than He, who lent his breath divine,
May give again on earth to cheer me with their smile.
That thou wert gifted ill for this poor sphere
Where first he faints who spares
Earth’s selfish, sordid cares;
And what might faults to baser eyes appear,
When ta’en where angels dwell, must be bright virtues there.
But had some wretch pressed by misfortune sore
Asked thy last piece of thee
To ease his misery,
When thou couldst only look to Heaven for more,
That last piece had been given, and thine own safety sold.
Poisoned the air around thee, hast thou stayed
By friends, while thirsty Death
Lurked near, to quaff their breath;
And soothed and saved while others were afraid,
And hardier hearts and hands than thine rushed wildly thence.
Still for this earth, with thy sweet brothers too,
Though scarce our worldly hoard
Sufficed a frugal board,
Hope should beguile no more: I ’d live for you,
Disclaim all other love—and sing, and bless my lot.
How could I kneel and kiss the hand of Fate,
Were it but mine to decorate some hall—
Here, where the soil I tread
Colors my feet with red—
Far down these isles, to hear your voices call,
Then haste to hear and tell what happed while separate!
Tall silver shafted palm-trees rise between
Full orange-trees that shade
The living colonnade;
Alas! how sad, how sickening, is the scene
That were ye at my side would be a paradise!
In many a leafy hillside, near this spot,
Seem as by Nature made
For shelter and for shade
To such as bear a homeless wanderer’s lot,
Were home enough for me, could those I mourn be nigh.
Winter lies hid with wreaths) alike may be,
If love and taste unite,
A dwelling for delight,
And kings might leave their silken courts to see
O’er such wild, garnished grot the grandiflora climb.
The pauses of my deep remorse between;
Before my anxious eyes
’T is thus her pictures rise;
They show what is not, yet what might have been;
Angels, why came I not?—why have I come too late?
The needs of both, could but these hands have given;
Could I have watched the glow—
The pulse, too quick, or slow—
My earnest, fond, reiterate prayers to Heaven,
Some angel might have come, besought, returned, and saved.
’T was crime—how yearned my panting heart to see,
When, by mere words delayed,
’Gainst the strong wish, I stayed
(Trifling with that which inly spoke to me),
And longed, and hoped, and feared, till all I feared was o’er!
O’er Ladaüanna, in his much-loved north,
Breathed here his last farewell—
And when the tears that fell
From April, called Mohecan’s violets forth,
Edgar, as following his, thy friendly spirit fled.
Is laid, sweet brothers, all of you that ’s left;
Yet, all the tropic dew
Can damp would seem not you:
Your finer particles from earth are reft,
Haply (and so I ’ll hope) for lovelier forms of light.