A TROPICAL VOYAGE.
395
By tree and herbage, that the field
Where the swift deluge fiercest rained,
Will all its vegetation yield,
With more luxuriance than the first
New morn the faithful soil was nursed.
Where the swift deluge fiercest rained,
Will all its vegetation yield,
With more luxuriance than the first
New morn the faithful soil was nursed.
Long graceful lines of coast were seen,
Fringed with the deepest tints of green;
The waves ran up and kissed the shore,
As if inspired with child-like glee,
Then, laughing at the robbery, bore
Leaves, buds, and blossoms out to sea.
It was a heartfelt joy to hear
Their merry voices; to behold
Gleaming upon their foreheads clear,
Circlets of silver, wreaths of gold;
To deem them living creatures, blest
With the soft airs and genial glow
Of this Elysium of the West,
Unchanging ever in their flow,
Save with the changes of their queen —
The Moon — subdued by whose sweet face,
They rolled away and left between
Their boundary and the shore a space —
A glittering belt of sand and shells,
Tossed from the ocean's treasure-cells.
Fringed with the deepest tints of green;
The waves ran up and kissed the shore,
As if inspired with child-like glee,
Then, laughing at the robbery, bore
Leaves, buds, and blossoms out to sea.
It was a heartfelt joy to hear
Their merry voices; to behold
Gleaming upon their foreheads clear,
Circlets of silver, wreaths of gold;
To deem them living creatures, blest
With the soft airs and genial glow
Of this Elysium of the West,
Unchanging ever in their flow,
Save with the changes of their queen —
The Moon — subdued by whose sweet face,
They rolled away and left between
Their boundary and the shore a space —
A glittering belt of sand and shells,
Tossed from the ocean's treasure-cells.
Alas! how many years I've told
On my life's rosary, since the time,
When, jingling little bells of rhyme,
I voyaged to shun the mist and cold
Of Winter in a Northern town;
I voyaged to lands of small renown —
Lands where no war was ever waged,
Where none but lovers were engaged;
Where old Association finds
No records of illustrious minds;
No ruined temple, broken bust,
Nor urn nor venerated dust;
But where, a Matron-Bride arrayed
In all the pomp of light and shade,
On my life's rosary, since the time,
When, jingling little bells of rhyme,
I voyaged to shun the mist and cold
Of Winter in a Northern town;
I voyaged to lands of small renown —
Lands where no war was ever waged,
Where none but lovers were engaged;
Where old Association finds
No records of illustrious minds;
No ruined temple, broken bust,
Nor urn nor venerated dust;
But where, a Matron-Bride arrayed
In all the pomp of light and shade,
