Borneo here expands her ample breast,
By Nature's hand in woods of camphire dressed;
The precious liquid weeping from the trees
Glows warm with health, the balsam of discase.
Fair are Timora's dales with groves arrayed;
Each rivulet murmurs in the fragrant shade,
And in its crystal breast displays the bowers
Of sanders, blessed with health-restoring powers.
Where to the south the world's broad surface bends,
Lo, Sunda's realm her spreading arms extends.
From hence the pilgrim brings the wondrous tale,
A river groaning through a dreary dale,
For all is stone around, converts to stone
Whate'er of verdure in its breast is thrown.
Lo, gleaming blue o'er fair Sumatra's skies,
Another mountain's trembling flames arise;
Here from the trees the gum all fragrance swells,
And softest oil a wondrous fountain wells.
Nor these alone the happy isle bestows,
Fine is her gold, her silk resplendent glows.
Wide forests there beneath Maldivia's tide
From withering air their wondrous fruitage hide.
The green-haired Nereids tend the bowery dells,
Whose wondrous fruitage poisoned rage expels.
In Ceylon, lo, how high yon mountain's brows!
The sailing clouds its middle height enclose.
Holy the hill is deemed, the hallowed tread
Of sainted footstep marks its rocky head.
Laved by the Red-Sea gulf, Socotra's bowers
There boast the tardy aloc's clustered fowers.
Luis de Camoens. Tr. W. J. Mickle.
CLIMB the highest cliff: I hear the sound
Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around:
I mark the sun that orient lifts his head!
I mark the sea's lone rule beneath him spread :
But not a speck can my long-straining eye,
A shadow, o'er the tossing waste descry,
That I might weep tears of delight, and say,
"It is the bark that bore my child away!"
Thou sun, that beamest bright, bencath whose eye
The worlds unknown, and outstretched waters, lie,
Dost thou behold him now? On some rude shore,
Around whose crags the cheerless billows roar,
Watching the unwearied surges doth he stand,
And think upon his father's distant land?
Or has his heart forgot, so far away,
These native scenes, these rocks and torrents gray,
The tall bananas whispering to the breeze,
The shores, the sound of these encircling seas,
Heard from his infant days, and the piled heap
Of holy stones, where his forefathers sleep?
Ah me! till sunk by sorrow, I shall dwell With them forgetful in the narrow cell, Never shall time from my fond heart efface His image; oft his shadow I shall trace Upon the glimmering waters, when on high The white moon wanders through the cloudless sky. Oft in my silent cave (when to its fire From the night's rushing tempest we retire) I shall behold his form, his aspect bland; I shall retrace his footsteps in the sand; And, when the hollow-sounding surges swell, Still think I listen to his echoing shell.
O, I shall never, never hear his voice;
The spring-time shall return, the isles rejoice;
But faint and weary I shall meet the morn,
And mid the cheering sunshine droop forlorn!
The joyous conch sounds in the high wood loud,
O'er all the beach now stream the busy crowd;
Fresh breezes stir the waving plantain grove;
The fisher carols in the winding cove;
And light canoes along the lucid tide
With painted shells and sparkling paddles glide.
I linger on the desert rock alone,
Heartless, and cry for thee, my son, my son.
A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND.
YOME, take our boy, and we will go
Before our cabin-door;
The winds shall bring us, as they blow,
The murmurs of the shore;
And we will kiss his young blue eyes,
And I will sing him, as he lies,
Songs that were made of yore;
I'll sing, in his delighted ear,
The island lays thou lov'st to hear.
And thou, while stammering I repeat,
Thy country's tongue shalt teach;
"Tis not so soft, but far more sweet,
Than my own native speech:
For thou no other tongue didst know,
When, scarcely twenty moons ago,
Upon Tahete's beach,
Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine,
With many a speaking look and sign.
I knew thy meaning, thou didst praise
My eyes, my locks of jet;
Ah! well for me they won thy gaze,
But thine were fairer yet!
I'm glad to see my infant wear
Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair,
And when my sight is met
By his white brow and blooming cheek,
I feel a joy I cannot speak.
Come talk of Europe's maids with me,
Whose necks and cheeks, they tell,
Outshine the beauty of the sea,
White foam and crimson shell.
I'll shape like theirs my simple dress,
And bind like them each jetty tress,
A sight to please thee well;
And for my dusky brow will braid
A bonnet like an English maid.
Come, for the soft low sunlight calls,
We lose the pleasant hours;
'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls,
That seat among the flowers.
And I will learn of thee a prayer,
To Him, who gave a home so fair,
A lot so blessed as ours,
The God who made, for thee and me,
This sweet lone isle amid the sea.
HEY called the islands by his name,
Those isles, the far away and fair;
A graceful fancy linked with fame,
A flattery such as poets' are,
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