THE MORAI.

THE MORAI . The Morai , the sepulchre of the Otaheitans , was composed at the desire of the kind patron of my first essays in literature , the Rev. Doctor Kippis , and inserted in his History of Captain Cook's Life by that revered friend , for whom the feelings of attachment and veneration , cherished since the days of childhood , still make a part of my existence . Nothing , indeed , is better fitted to confirm our love and admiration of particular virtue , than experience of the world in general . 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 , Deep and lengthened darkness throws , And untried danger's doubtful form Its half-seen horror shews ! While Nature , with a look so wild , Leans on the cliffs , in chaos pil'd , That here the aw'd , astonish'd mind Forgets , in that o'erwhelming hour , When her rude hands the storms unbind In all the madness of her power , That she who spreads the savage gloom , That she can dress in melting grace , In sportive Summer's lavish bloom , The awful terrors of her face ; And wear the sweet perennial smile That charms in OTAHEITE'S isle . Yet , amid her fragrant bowers , Where Spring , whose dewy fingers strew O'er other lands some fleeting flowers , Lives , in blossoms ever new ; Whence arose that shriek of pain ? Whence the tear that flows in vain ? Death ! thy unrelenting hand Bursts some transient , human band . What art thou , Death ? — terrific shade , In unpierc'd gloom array'd ! — Oft will daring Fancy stray Far in the central wastes , where night Divides no cheering hour with day , And unnam'd horrors meet her sight ; There thy form she dimly sees , And round the shape unfinish'd throws All her frantic vision shews , When numbing fears her spirit freeze . But can mortal voice declare , If Fancy paints thee as thou art ? — Thy aspect may a terror wear Her pencil never shall impart ; The eye that once on thee shall gaze No more its stiffen'd orb can raise ; The lips that could thy power reveal , Shall lasting silence instant seal . In vain the icy hand we fold , In vain the breast with tears we steep , The heart that shar'd each pang is cold , The vacant eye no more can weep . Yet from the shore where Ganges rolls His waves beneath the torrid ray , To earth's chill verge , where o'er the poles Falls the last beam of ling'ring day , For ever sacred are the dead ! Sweet Fancy comes in sorrow's aid , And bids the mourner lightly tread Where th' insensate clay is laid ; Bids partial gloom the sod invest By the mould'ring relics prest ; There lavish strews with sad delight , Whate'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 , where 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 fun'ral 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 graceful locks , no longer dear , She wildly scatters o'er the bier , And frantic gives the frequent wound That purples with her blood the ground ! Where along the western sky Day's reflected colours die , And twilight rules the doubtful hour Ere slow-pac'd night resumes her power , Mark the cloud that lingers still Darkly on the hanging hill : There the disembodied mind Hears , upon the hollow wind , Low , in mournful cadence thrown , Sorrow's oft repeated moan — Still some human passions sway The spirit , late immers'd in clay ; Still the hopeless sigh is dear , Still belov'd the fruitless tear ! Five waning moons with wand'ring light Have past the shadowy bound of night , And mingled their departing ray With the soft fires of early day ; Let the last sad rites 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 consecrated 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 smile 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 hov'ring 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 that 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 thro' Time's long flight unknown , Till Cook the untrack'd billow past ! Till he along the surges cast Philanthropy's connecting zone , And spread her loveliest blessings round ! — Not like that murd'rous band he came , Who stain'd with blood the new-found West ; Nor as , with unrelenting breast , From BRITAIN'S free , enlightened land , Her sons now seek ANGOLA'S strand , The Slave-trade was not then abolished . The ties 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 ! Great COOK ! Ambition's lofty flame , So oft directed to destroy , Led thee to circle with thy name The smile of love , and hope , and joy ! Those fires that lend the dang'rous blaze The devious comet trails afar , Might form the pure , benignant rays That gild the morning's gentle star . Sure , where the hero's ashes rest , The nations late emerg'd from night Still haste — with love's unwearied care , That spot in lavish flowers is drest , And fancy's dear , inventive rite Still paid with fond observance there ? — Ah , no ! around his fatal grave No lavish flowers were ever strew'd , No votive gift was ever laid — His blood a savage shore bedew'd ! His mangled limbs , one hasty prayer , One pious tear by friendship paid , Were cast upon the raging wave ! Deep in the wild abyss he lies , Far from the cherish'd scene of home ; Far , far from her whose faithful sighs A husband's trackless course pursue ; Whose tender fancy loves to roam With him o'er lands and oceans new ; And gilds with hope's deluding form The gloomy pathway of the storm ! Yet , Cook ! immortal wreathes are thine ! While Albion's grateful toil shall raise The marble tomb , the trophied bust , For ages faithful to its trust ; While , eager to record thy praise , She bids the muse of history twine The chaplet of undying fame , And tell each polish'd land thy worth , The ruder natives of the earth Shall oft repeat thy honour'd name , While infants catch the frequent sound , And learn to lisp the oral tale , Whose fond remembrance shall prevail Till Time has reach'd her destin'd bound !