O'er thee mild Eve her beauty flings,
And there the white gull lifts her wings,
And the blue halcyon loves to lave
Her plumage in the deep blue wave.
Sleep on; no willow o'er thee bends
With melancholy air—
No violet springs, nor dewy rose
Its soul of love lays bare;
But there the sea-flower, bright and young,
Is sweetly o'er thy slumbers flung, -
And, like a weeping mourner fair,
The pale flag hangs its tresses there.
Sleep on, sleep on; the glittering depths
Of ocean's coral caves
Are thy bright urn-thy requiem
The music of its waves;
The purple gems forever burn
In fadeless beauty round thy urn,
and deep as infant love, The blue sea rolls its waves above.
Sleep on, sleep on; the fearful wrath
Of mingling cloud and deep
May leave its wild and stormy track
Above thy place of sleep;
But when the wave has sunk to rest,
As now, 'twill murmur o'er thy breast,
And the bright victims of the sea
Perchance will make their home with thee.
Sleep on; thy corse is far away,
But love bewails thee yet;
For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed,
And lovely eyes are wet:
And she, thy young and beauteous bride,
Her thoughts are hovering by thy side,
As oft she turns to view, with tears,
The Eden of departed years.
THE COCOA-NUT TREE.
H, the green and the graceful—the cocoa-nut tree!
The lone and the lofty-it loves, like me,
The flash, the foam of the heaving sea,
And the sound of the surging waves
In the shore's unfathomed caves:
With its stately shaft and its verdant crown,
And its fruit in clusters drooping down-
Some of a soft and tender green,
And some all ripe and brown between,
And flowers, too, blending their lovelier grace
Like a blush through the tresses on Beauty's face.
Oh, the lovely, the free,
The cocoa-nut tree,
Is the tree of all trees for me!
The willow, it waves with a tenderer motion,
The oak and the elm with more majesty rise;
But give me the cocoa, that loves the wild ocean,
And shadows the hut where the island-girl lies.
In the Nicobar Islands, each cottage you see
Is built of the trunk of the cocoa-nut tree,
While its leaves, matted thickly and many times o'er, Make a thatch for its roof and a mat for its floor;
Its shells the dark islander's beverage hold—
'Tis a goblet as pure as a goblet of gold. Oh, the cocoa-nut tree,
That blooms by the sea,
Is the tree of all trees for me!
In the Nicobar Isles, of the cocoa-nut tree
They build the light shallop—the wild, the free;
They weave of its fibres so firm a sail,
It will weather the rudest southern gale;
They fill it with oil, and with coarse jaggherry-
With arrack and coir, from the cocoa-nut tree.
The lone, the free,
That dwells in the roar
Of the echoing shore
Oh, the cocoa-nut tree for me!
Rich is the cocoa-nut's milk and meat,
And its wine, the pure palm-wine, is sweet;
It is like the bright spirits we sometimes meet—
The wine of the cocoa-nut tree;
For they tie up the embryo bud's soft wing,
From which the blossoms and nuts would spring
And thus, forbidden to bless with bloom
Its native air, and with soft perfume,
The subtile spirit that struggles there
Distils an essence more rich and rare-
And instead of a blossom and fruitage birth,
The delicate palm-wine oozes forth.
Ah, thus to the child of genius, too,
The rose of beauty is oft denied ;
But all the richer, that high heart through,
The torrent of feeling pours its tide;
purer and fonder, and far more true,
Is that passionate soul in its lonely pride.
Oh, the fresh, the free,
The cocoa-nut tree,
Is the tree of all trees for me!
The glowing sky of the Indian isles
Lovingly over the cocoa-nut smiles,
And the Indian maiden lies below,
Where its leaves their graceful shadow throw:
She weaves a wreath of the rosy shells
That gem the beach where the cocoa dwells;
She binds them into her long black hair,
And they blush in the braids like rosebuds there;
Her soft brown arm, and her graceful neck,
With those ocean-blooms she joys to deck.
Oh, wherever you see
The cocoa-nut tree,
There will a picture of beauty be!
Elizabeth Oakes-Smith.
THE BROOK.
66 WHITHER away, thou merry Brook, Whither away so fast,
With dainty feet through the meadow green,
And a smile as you hurry past ?",
The Brook leaped on in idle mirth,
And dimpled with saucy glee;
The daisy kissed in lovingness,
And made with the willow free.
I heard its laugh adown the glen,
And over the rocky steep,
Away where the old tree's roots were bare
In the waters dark and deep;
The sunshine flashed upon its face,
And played with flickering leaf
Well pleased to dally in its path,
Though the tarrying were brief.
"Now stay thy feet, O restless one,
Where droops the spreading tree,
And let thy liquid voice reveal
Thy story unto me."
The flashing pebbles lightly rang,
As the gushing music fell— The chiming music of the Brook,
From out the woody dell:
"My mountain home was bleak and high,
A rugged spot and drear,
With searching wind and raging storm,
And moonlight cold and clear.
I longed for a greeting cheery as mine,
For a fond and answering look;
But none were in that solitude
To bless the little Brook.
"The blended hum of pleasant sounds Came up from the vale below,
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