Port Talbot Poems in the Montreal Scribbler

By Adam Hood Burwell



There’s a land of delight that a stranger knows not.
An Eden terrestrial, a soul-cheering spot,
Where the sun-shine of happiness pours its best ray,
And the halo of pleasure enlivens each day.

’Tis unknown to the traveler that roams the world round;


In wild dissipation it never is found;
’Tis not in the field where ambition stalks high;
Nor is it in Courts with the artful and sly.

Yet it blooms in all countries, ’tis known in all climes,
’Tis found in all nations and found at all times —


In the mountains of Norway, snow-cover’d and drear;
In the south where the burning sun flames all the year.

The shrine of affection within it is raised;
The altar of friendship long in it has blazed;
It is sacred to love, and it long will retain


The dear sweets of life that are found in love’s train.

It was given to man for a quiet retreat
From the noise of the world — there peace fixes her seat;
There gentle contentment delights to reside,
While soft, dove-eyed, tenderness keeps by their side.


But ah! there are demons of jealousy, hate,
Dissipation, intemperance, that round this land wait,
To enter and spoil it. O! let them not come,
For with them destruction would ravage your Home.


Port Talbot, U. C. [Page 20]

* This poem appeared in The Scribbler, (Montreal), I, (6 September, 1821), 86. [back]