THESE Indian isles, so green and gay,
In summer seas by Nature placed,—
Art hardly told us where they lay
Till tyranny their charms defaced;
Ambition there her conquests made,
And avarice rifled every shade!
The Genius wept, his sons to see
By foreign arms untimely fall,
And some to distant climates flee
Where later ruin met them all:
He saw his sylvan offspring bleed
That fiercer natures might succeed.
The chief that first o’er barren waves
To these fair islands found his way,
Departing, left a race of slaves,
Cortez, thy mandate to obey;
And these again, if fame says true,
To lord it o’er the savage crew.
No more to Indian coasts confined,—
The Genius thus indulged his grief;
While he to woe his heart resigned,
To see the proud European chief
Pursue the harmless Indian race,
Torn by his dogs in every chase!
Ah, what a change! the ambient deep
No longer hears the lover’s sigh;
But wretches meet to wail and weep
The loss of their dear liberty;
Unfeeling hearts possess these isles,
Man frowns, and only Nature smiles.
Proud of these vast extended shores
The haughty Spaniard calls his own,
No other world may share those stores
To other worlds so little known;
His Cuba lies a wilderness,
Where slavery digs what slaves possess.
(Extract from Caribbeana)