To their first fault, and withered in their pride,"
the gentle song of the Mayne river, and that strange song of old spices which haunts the brain like a perfume:—
"Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes
From out her hair: such balsam falls
Down sea-side mountain pedestals,
From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,
Spent with the vast and howling main,
To treasure half their island gain.