IËRE
How just the native term for Trinidad,
Land of the Humming-bird, all-bright Iere,
Needing no testimonial as we fare
Through scintillating by-ways gay as plaid,
Alive, alert, acquiver, perfume-mad;
With radiant erythrinas everywhere,
Mothers of cocoas rosy-tinged that bear
Pods red as wine—oh, nothing here is sad!
Even the surly coolie must unbend;
For, as I passed this noon a Tamil's nest —
Gold thatch on sides of wattled gold bamboo —
One, crouched before it in his snowy best,
Flashed me a smile, the greeting of a friend,
Born of the light, Iëre, absorbed from you.
MORNE FORTUNÉ
Sainte-Alousie, St. Lucia of today—
Called by what Arawak, what Carib name
When the suspicious "Olive Blossom" came?—
Climbing with effort sheer Morne Fortuné,
Knot of so many a fierce heroic fray,
I wonder to what purpose all the flame
Which charred these steeps, what use the killed and maim,
Except as mulching for a richer May.
Hence Rodney sailed to meet and crush De Grasse,
Saving the threatened empire for a Guelph!
And here the Marseillaise crashed down before
Assaulting Abercromby's royal brass—
Here where you drill, but not to guard yourself,
Though France and England and rock again with war.
