What noble forms! what fairy place!
Cast anchor in this cove,
Push out the boat, for in this land
A little we must rove!
We'll wander on through wood and field,
We'll sit beneath the vine;
We'll drink the limpid cocoa-milk,
And pluck the native pine.
The bread-fruit and cassava-root
And many a glowing berry,
Shall be our feast; for here, at least,
Why should we not be merry?
WILLIAM HOWITT.
* * * * *
NOTE.—The following poem may be given as a recitation by changing the title to "Puerto Rico." The words apply to this island as well as to the island which is described.
SANTA CRUZ.
Betwixt old Cancer and the midway line,
In happiest climate lies this envied isle:
Trees bloom throughout the year, soft breezes blow,
And fragrant Flora wears a lasting smile.
Cool, woodland streams from shaded cliffs descend,
The dripping rock no want of moisture knows,
Supplied by springs that on the skies depend,
That fountain feeding as the current flows.
Sweet, verdant isle! through thy dark woods I rove
And learn the nature of each native tree,
The fustic hard; the poisonous manchineel,
Which for its fragrant apple pleaseth thee;