THE LAND STORM.
The heavens are cloudless, and the sunny plain
Rich with its fertile tracts of sugar-cane,
Its fleecy crops of cotton, corn, and oil,
And all the myriad plants that gem the soil,
Yielding their precious juice in costly dyes
Bright as the rain-bow tints of their own skies,
Smile in the golden light—a wide expanse
Of varied landscape where the sun-beams glance
O'er dotting mango topes, and snow white mhuts,
Which peep beside the peasants' straw-thatched huts.
Beyond, in eastern splendour beaming bright
The city stands upon a wooded height;
Its tall pagodas, and its broad Serais,
Shining, like pearls amid the noon-tide, blaze;
While from each terrace shooting up afar
Gleams the proud mosque, and pinnacled minar
Surmounted by those graceful coronals,
The palm tree flings above the sculptured walls
Its drooping foliage, beautifully blent,
With tower and spire, and marble pediment.
