The lowly mangrove, fond of watery soil;
The white-barked palm tree, rising high in air;
The mastic in the woods you may descry;
Tamarind and lofty bay-trees flourish there;
Sweet orange groves in lonely valleys rise,
And drop their fruits unnoticed and unknown;
The cooling acid limes in hedges grow,
The juicy lemons swell in shades their own.
Soft, spongy plums on trees wide-spreading hang;
Bell apples here, suspended, shade the ground;
Plump granadillas and guavas gray,
With melons, in each plain and vale abound.
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But chief the glory of these Indian isles
Springs from the sweet, uncloying sugar-cane;
Hence comes the planter's wealth, hence commerce sends
Such floating piles, to traverse half the main.
Whoe'er thou art that leaves thy native shore,
And shall to fair West India climates come;
Taste not the enchanting plant,—to taste forbear,
If ever thou wouldst reach thy much-loved home.
—PHILIP FREEMAN.
HELPFUL BOOKS
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