For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE PEASANT-WOMEN OF THE CANARIES.
| Beautiful Islands, how fair you lie Beneath the light of your cloudless sky, And the light green waves that around you play, Seem keeping forever a holiday;— Beautiful Islands, how bright you rise 'Twixt the crystal sea and the sunny skies! The luscious grape, with its royal hue Veil'd in a tint of the softest blue, Hangs on the vine in its purple prime As proud to garnish its own sweet clime, And the olive sports in your soft, sweet air Its pale green foliage—a native there. Music is ceaseless your trees among, Thou Island-home of a choral throng; Music unheard on a foreign shore;— Songs of the free—which they will not pour When exile-minstrels compelled to roam— They're sacred songs to their sweet isle-home. Why, though it's light in the Olive-bower, And fragrance breathes from the Orange-flower, And the sea is still and the air is calm And the early dew is a liquid balm— Why are the young ones forbade to roam, Or stray from the door of their Cottage-home?1 In the light that plays through the Olive-bower, In the scent that breathes from the Orange-flower, In the liquid balm of the early dew, In the smooth, calm sea with its emerald hue, Can the Peasant-mother no charm descry To protect from the curse of the "evil eye." While they shall loiter the trees among, Echoing the wild Canary's song, The "mal de ajo" may on them rest And blight the pride of the mother's breast; Her bosom throbs with a secret dread, Though paths of Eden her loved ones tread. Lo, from the Peak, with its hoary crown, The "el a pagador" sails down, And over the Cot in the moon-light floats, Foreboding death in its awful notes— Who in that Cottage but pants for breath, And hears that voice as the voice of death? Richly the vine with its deep green leaf, Girdles the base of the Teneriffe,— Yet there, in the prime of the sunny day, The Peasant-maiden dares not to stray, Till the secret charm to her arm is set, And her bosom throbs to an amulet. When, oh! when, shall darkness flee, From the rosy Isles of the sunny sea? The light of Truth with its living ray, Pour on their dwellers a clearer day, And Mind from the chain of its darkness rise, Like a bird set free, to its native skies? |
ELIZA.
Maine.
1 D. Y. Brown's Superstitions of the Canary Islands.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.