Like the wedding-guest enchanted,
   There he stood, a trembling cur;
While the Indian told his story,
   Like the Ancient Mariner.

Told how—­’Once that loathly Pitch Lake
   Was a garden bright and fair;
How the Chaymas off the mainland
   Built their palm ajoupas there.

’How they throve, and how they fattened,
   Hale and happy, safe and strong;
Passed the livelong days in feasting;
   Passed the nights in dance and song.

’Till they cruel grew, and wanton: 
   Till they killed the colibris. 
Then outspake the great Good Spirit,
   Who can see through all the trees,

’Said—­“And what have I not sent you,
   Wanton Chaymas, many a year? 
Lapp, {335a} agouti, {335b} cachicame, {335c}
   Quenc {335d} and guazu-pita deer.

’"Fish I sent you, sent you turtle,
   Chip-chip, {335e} conch, flamingo red,
Woodland paui, {335f} horned screamer, {335g}
   And blue ramier {335h} overhead.

’"Plums from balata {335i} and mombin, {335j}
   Tania, {335k} manioc, {335l} water-vine; {335m}
Let you fell my slim manacques, {335n}
   Tap my sweet moriche wine. {335o}

’"Sent rich plantains, {336a} food of angels;
   Rich ananas, {336b} food of kings;
Grudged you none of all my treasures: 
   Save these lovely useless things.”

‘But the Chaymas’ ears were deafened;
   Blind their eyes, and could not see
How a blissful Indian’s spirit
   Lived in every colibri.

’Lived, forgetting toil and sorrow,
   Ever fair and ever new;
Whirring round the dear old woodland,
   Feeding on the honey-dew.

’Till one evening roared the earthquake: 
   Monkeys howled, and parrots screamed: 
And the Guaraons at morning
   Gathered here, as men who dreamed.

’Sunk were gardens, sunk ajoupas;
   Hut and hammock, man and hound: 
And above the Chayma village
   Boiled with pitch the cursed ground.

’Full, and too full; safe, and too safe;
   Negro man, take care, take care. 
He that wantons with God’s bounties
   Of God’s wrath had best beware.

’For the saucy, reckless, heartless,
   Evil days are sure in store. 
You may see the Negro sinking
   As the Chayma sank of yore.’

Loudly laughed that stalwart hunter—­
   ’Eh, what superstitious talk! 
Nyam {337} am nyam, an’ maney maney;
   Birds am birds, like park am park;
An’ dere’s twenty thousand birdskins
   Ardered jes’ now fram New Yark.’

Eversley, 1870.

HYMN {338}

Accept this building, gracious Lord,
   No temple though it be;
We raised it for our suffering kin,
   And so, Good Lord, for Thee.

Accept our little gift, and give
   To all who here may dwell,
The will and power to do their work,
   Or bear their sorrows well.