Ah, the delicious palms,—that on the plains
Of my own native Cuba spring and spread
Their thickly foliaged summits to the sun,
And, in the breathings of the ocean air
Wave soft beneath the heaven's unspotted blue?
"But no, Niagara,—thy forest pines
Are fitter coronal for thee. The palm,
The effeminate myrtle and pale rose may grow
In gardens and give out their fragrance there,
Unmanning him who breathes it. Thine it is