Here you will find the Long Poem Abba Thule's Lament For His Son Prince Le Boo of poet William Lisle Bowles
I climb the highest cliff; I hear the sound Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around; I mark the gray cope, and the hollowness Of heaven, and the great sun, that comes to bless The isles again; but my long-straining eye, No speck, no shadow can, far off, descry, That I might weep tears of delight, and say, It is the bark that bore my child away! Sun, that returnest bright, beneath whose eye The worlds unknown, and out-stretched waters lie, Dost thou behold him now! On some rude shore, Around whose crags the cheerless billows roar, Watching the unwearied surges doth he stand, And think upon his father's distant land! Or has his heart forgot, so far away, These native woods, these rocks, and torrents gray, The tall bananas whispering to the breeze, The shores, the sound of these encircling seas, Heard from his infant days, and the piled heap Of holy stones, where his forefathers sleep! Ah, me! till sunk by sorrow, I shall dwell With them forgetful in the narrow cell, Never shall time from my fond heart efface His image; oft his shadow I shall trace Upon the glimmering waters, when on high The white moon wanders through the cloudless sky. Oft in my silent cave, when to its fire From the night's rushing tempest we retire, I shall behold his form, his aspect bland; I shall retrace his footsteps on the sand; And, when the hollow-sounding surges swell, Still think I listen to his echoing shell. Would I had perished ere that hapless day, When the tall vessel, in its trim array, First rushed upon the sounding surge, and bore My age's comfort from this sheltering shore! I saw it spread its white wings to the wind, Too soon it left these hills and woods behind, Gazing, its course I followed till mine eye No longer could its distant track descry; Till on the confines of the billows hoar A while it hung, and then was seen no more, And only the blue hollow cope I spied, And the long waste of waters tossing wide. More mournful then each falling surge I heard, Then dropt the stagnant tear upon my beard. Methought the wild waves said, amidst their roar At midnight, Thou shalt see thy son no more! Now thrice twelve moons through the mid heavens have rolled And many a dawn, and slow night, have I told: And still as every weary day goes by, A knot recording on my line I tie; But never more, emerging from the main, I see the stranger's bark approach again. Has the fell storm o'erwhelmed him! Has its sweep Buried the bounding vessel in the deep! Is he cast bleeding on some desert plain! Upon his father did he call in vain! Have pitiless and bloody tribes defiled The cold limbs of my brave, my beauteous child! Oh! I shall never, never hear his voice; The spring-time shall return, the isles rejoice, But faint and weary I shall meet the morn, And 'mid the cheering sunshine droop forlorn! The joyous conch sounds in the high wood loud, O'er all the beach now stream the busy crowd; Fresh breezes stir the waving plantain grove; The fisher carols in the winding cove; And light canoes along the lucid tide With painted shells and sparkling paddles glide. I linger on the desert rock alone, Heartless, and cry for thee, my son, my son.