TO THE WHITE BIRD OF THE TROPIC.
Bird of the Tropic! thou, who lov'st to stray
Where thy long pinions sweep the sultry line,
Or mark'st the bounds which torrid beams confine
By thy averted course, that shuns the ray
Oblique, enamour'd of sublimer day:
Oft on yon cliff thy folded plumes recline,
And drop those snowy feathers Indians twine
To crown the warrior's brow with honours gay.
O'er Trackless oceans what impels thy wing?
Does no soft instinct in thy soul prevail?
No sweet affection to thy bosom cling,
And bid thee oft thy absent nest bewail?
Yet thou again to that dear spot canst spring
But I my long lost home no more shall hail!
"The domestic inhabitants of our forests, monkeys, sport upon the dark branches of the trees, from which they are distinguished by their gray and greenish skin, and their black visages. Some hang suspended by the tail, and balance themselves in air; others leap from branch to branch, bearing their young in their arms. The murderous gun has never affrighted those peaceful children of nature. You sometimes hear the warblings of unknown birds from the southern countries, repeated at a distance by the echoes of the forest. The river, which runs in foaming cataracts over a bed of rocks, reflects here and there, upon its limpid waters, venerable masses of woody shade, together with the sport of its happy inhabitants. About a thousand paces from thence the river precipitates itself over several piles of rocks, and forms, in its fall, a sheet of water smooth as crystal, but which breaks at the bottom into frothy surges. Innumerable confused sounds issue from those tumultuous waters, which, scattered by the winds of the forest, sometimes sink, sometimes swell, and send forth a hollow tone like the deep bells of a cathedral. The air, for ever renewed by the circulation of the waters, fans the banks of that river with freshness, and leaves a degree of verdure, notwithstanding the summer heats, rarely found in this island, even upon the summits of the mountains.
"At some distance is a rock, placed far enough from the cascade to prevent the ear from being deafened by the noise of its waters, and sufficiently near for the enjoyment of their view, their coolness, and their murmurs. Thither, amidst the heats of summer, Madame de la Tour, Margaret, Virginia, Paul, and myself sometimes repaired, and dined beneath the shadow of the rock. Virginia, who always directed her most ordinary actions to the good of others, never ate of any fruit without planting the seed or kernel in the ground. 'From this,' said she, 'trees will come, which will give their fruit to some traveller, or at least to some bird.' One day having eaten of the papaw fruit, at the foot of that rock she planted the seeds. Soon after several papaws sprung up, amongst which was one that yielded fruit. This tree had risen but a little from the ground at the time of Virginia's departure; but its growth being rapid, in the space of two years it had gained twenty feet of height, and the upper part of its stem was encircled with several layers of ripe fruit. Paul having wandered to that spot, was delighted to see that this lofty tree had arisen from the small seed planted by his beloved friend; but that emotion instantly gave place to a deep melancholy, at this evidence of her long absence. The objects which we see habitually do not remind us of the rapidity of life; they decline insensibly with ourselves; but those which we behold again, after having for some years lost sight of them, impress us powerfully with the idea of that swiftness with which the tide of our days flows on. Paul was no less overwhelmed and affected at the sight of this great papaw tree, loaded with fruit, than is the traveller, when, after a long absence from his own country, he finds not his contemporaries, but their children, whom he left at the breast, and whom he sees are become fathers of families. Paul sometimes thought of hewing down the tree, which recalled too sensibly the distracted image of that length of time which had clasped since the departure of Virginia. Sometimes, contemplating it as a monument of her benevolence, he kissed its trunk, and apostrophised it in terms of the most passionate regret; and, indeed I have myself gazed upon it with more emotion and more veneration than upon the triumphal arches of Rome.
"At the foot of this papaw I was always sure to meet with Paul when he came into our neighbourhood. One day, when I found him absorbed in melancholy, we had a conversation, which I will relate to you, if I do not weary you by my long digressions; perhaps pardonable to my age and my last friendships.
"Paul said to me, 'I am very unhappy. Mademoiselle de la Tour has now been gone two years and two months; and we have heard no tidings of her for eight months and two weeks. She is rich, and I am poor. She has forgotten me. I have a great mind to follow her. I will go to France; I will serve the king; make a fortune; and then Mademoiselle de la Tour's aunt will bestow her niece upon me when I shall have become a great lord.
"'But, my dear friend,' I answered, 'have you not told me that you are not of noble birth?'
"'My mother has told me so,' said Paul. 'As for myself I know not what noble birth means.'
"'Obscure birth,' I replied, 'in France shuts out all access to great employments; nor can you even be received among any distinguished body of men.'
"'How unfortunate I am!' resumed Paul; 'every thing repulses me. I am condemned to waste my wretched life in labour, far from Virginia.' And he heaved a deep sigh.