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Where the
remote Bermudas ride
In th' ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat, that rowed along,
The list'ning
winds received this song.
"What should we do but sing
His praise
That led us through the wat'ry maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than
our own?
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs.
He lands us on a
grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate's
rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here
enamels everything;
And sends the fowls to us in
care,
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in
shades the orange bright
Like golden lamps in a green
night;
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels
more rich than Ormus shows.
He makes the figs our
mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever
bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by His hand,
From Lebanon, He stores the land;
And makes the
hollow seas, that roar,
Proclaim the ambergris on
shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The
Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for
us did frame
A temple, where to sound His name.
Oh
let our voice His praise exalt,
Till it arrive at
Heaven's vault:
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding,
may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!"
Thus sung they,
in the English boat,
An holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling
oars they kept the time.
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