ANSWER TO A CARD OF INVITATION

It came to hand, your friendly card,

No doubt, a token of regard;

But time is short, and I must leave

Your pensive town of Oratave,

And, soon departing, well you know,

Have many a weary mile to go.

Then stay and sip Canary wines,

While I return to oaks and pines,

To rail at kings, or court the muse,

To smoke a pipe, or turn recluse,

To think upon adventures past —

To think of what must come at last —

To drive the quill — and — to be brief,

To think no more of Teneriffe.—

How happy you who once a week,

Can storm a fort at Garrichique,

Or talk, familiar with the nuns

Secluded there with Levi's sons;

To see them smile, or hear them prate,

Or chant, and chat behind the grate!

All this is heaven, I half suspect,

And who would such a heaven neglect?

All I can say is what I mean,

May you embrace each Iphigene,

And hug and kiss them all the while,

These fair Calypsoes of the isle:

Then if what Sappho said, be true,

Blest as the immortal gods are you.

For me, not favor'd so by fate,

I venture not behind the grate:

There dragons guard the golden fleece,

And nymphs immured find no release:

Forbidden fruit you weekly see,

Forbidden fruit on every tree,

When he who tastes, may look for strife,

Where he who touches ventures life.

The jealous priests, with threatening eye

Look hard at all approaching nigh:

The monks have charge of brittle ware,

The friar bids you have a care;

That they alone the fruit may eat

That fills religion's last retreat:

The mother abbess looks as sour'd

As if you had the fruit devour'd,

And bids the stranger haste away,—

Not rich enough for fruit to pay.

How much unlike, our western fair,

Who breathe the sweets of freedom's air;

Go where they please, do what they will,

Themselves are their own guardians still:—

Then come, and on our distant shore

Some blooming rural nymph adore;

And do not make the day remote,

For time advances, quick as thought,

When thus some grave rebuke will say

When you approach the maiden gay:

‘ You should have courted in your prime,

‘ Our Anastasia's, at that time

‘ When blood ran quick, and Hymen said,

‘ Colin! my laws must be obey'd.’

Your card to slight, I'm much distrest,

Your card has robb'd me of my rest:

Should I attempt the nuns to accost

The priests might growl, and all be lost:

My cash might fail me when to pay;

No chance, perhaps, to run away;—

So, I decline the needless task

Return to Charleston, with the cask

Of wine, you send from Teneriffe,

To glad some hearts, and dry up grief:

I add, some dangerous neighbors here

May disappoint my hopes I fear;

The breakers near the vessel roll;

The lee-ward shore, the rocky shoal!

The whitening seas that constant lave

The craggy strand of Oratave;

The expected gale, the adjacent rock

Each moment threatens all our stock,

And Neptune, in his giant cup

Stands lurking near, to gulp it up.

But here's a health to Neptune's sons

Who man the yard — nor dream of nuns.