Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol III, No 13, 1851. Various

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      A fluttering gale, the demon sends before,

      To tempt the spreading sail. Then down at once,

      Precipitant, descends a mingled mass

      Of roaring winds, and flame, and rushing floods.

      In wild amazement fix'd the sailor stands.

      Art is too slow. By rapid fate oppress'd,

      His broad-wing'd vessel drinks the whelming tide,

      Hid in the bosom of the black abyss.

      With such mad seas the daring Gama fought,

      For many a day, and many a dreadful night,

      Incessant, laboring round the stormy cape;

      By bold ambition led, and bolder thirst

      Of gold. For then, from ancient gloom, emerg'd

      The rising world of trade: the genius, then,

      Of navigation, that in hopeless sloth

      Had slumber'd on the vast Atlantic deep

      For idle ages, starting, heard at last

      The Lusitanian prince; who, heaven-inspired,

      To love of useful glory rous'd mankind,

      And in unbounded commerce mixed the world.

      Increasing still the terrors of these storms,

      His jaws horrific arm'd with threefold fate,

      Here dwells the direful shark. Lur'd by the scent

      Of steaming crowds, of rank disease, and death,

      Behold! he rushing cuts the briny flood,

      Swift as the gale can bear the ship along;

      And from the partners of that cruel trade

      Which spoils unhappy Guinea of her sons,

      Demands his share of prey – demands themselves.

      The stormy fates descend: one death involves

      Tyrants and slaves; when straight their mangled limbs

      Crashing at once, he dyes the purple seas

      With gore, and riots in the vengeful meal.

      When o'er this world, by equinoctial rains

      Flooded immense, looks out the joyless sun,

      And draws the copious steam; from swampy fens,

      Where putrefaction into life ferments,

      And breathes destructive myriads; or from woods,

      Impenetrable shades, recesses foul,

      In vapors rank and blue corruption wrapp'd,

      Whose gloomy horrors yet no desperate foot

      Has ever dar'd to pierce – then, wasteful, forth

      Walks the dire power of pestilent disease.

      A thousand hideous fiends her course attend,

      Sick nature blasting, and a heartless woe,

      And feeble desolation, casting down

      The towering hopes and all the pride of man.

      Such as, of late, at Carthagena quench'd

      The British fire. You, gallant Vernon, saw

      The miserable scene; you, pitying, saw

      To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm;

      Saw the deep-racking pang, the ghastly form,

      The lip pale-quivering, and the beamless eye

      No more with ardor bright; you heard the groans

      Of agonizing ships, from shore to shore;

      Heard, nightly plung'd amid the sullen waves,

      The frequent corse – while on each other fix'd,

      In sad presage, the blank assistants seemed,

      Silent, to ask, whom fate would next demand.

      What need I mention those inclement skies

      Where, frequent o'er the sickening city, plague,

      The fiercest child of Nemesis divine,

      Descends? From Ethiopia's poison'd woods,

      From stifled Cairo's filth, and fetid fields

      With locust-armies putrefying heap'd,

      This great destroyer sprung. Her awful rage

      The brutes escape. Man is her destin'd prey,

      Intemperate man! and o'er his guilty domes

      She draws a close incumbent cloud of death;

      Uninterrupted by the living winds,

      Forbid to blow a wholesome breeze; and stain'd

      With many a mixture by the sun, suffus'd,

      Of angry aspect. Princely wisdom, then,

      Dejects his watchful eye; and from the hand