O'er thee mild Eve her beauty flings, Sleep on; no willow o'er thee bends No violet springs, nor dewy rose But there the sea-flower, bright and young, The pale flag hangs its tresses there. Sleep on, sleep on; the glittering depths Of ocean's coral caves Are thy bright urn-thy requiem The music of its waves; The purple gems forever burn Sleep on, sleep on; the fearful wrath But when the wave has sunk to rest, Perchance will make their home with thee. For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed, And she, thy young and beauteous bride, H, the OF Frances Sargent Osgood. THE COCOA-NUT TREE. green and the graceful—the cocoa-nut tree! The lone and the lofty—it loves, like me, The flash, the foam of the heaving sea, And the sound of the surging waves In the shore's unfathomed caves: And some all ripe and brown between, The cocoa-nut tree, Is the tree of all trees for me! The willow, it waves with a tenderer motion, In the Nicobar Islands, each cottage you see Is built of the trunk of the cocoa-nut tree, While its leaves, matted thickly and many times o'er, Make a thatch for its roof and a mat for its floor; Its shells the dark islander's beverage hold — 'Tis a goblet as pure as a goblet of gold. Oh, the cocoa-nut tree, That blooms by the sea, Is the tree of all trees for me! In the Nicobar Isles, of the cocoa-nut tree They build the light shallop-the wild, the free; It will weather the rudest southern gale; That dwells in the roar Of the echoing shore Oh, the cocoa-nut tree for me! Rich is the cocoa-nut's milk and meat, For they tie up the embryo bud's soft wing, Ah, thus to the child of genius, too, The cocoa-nut tree, Is the tree of all trees for me! The glowing sky of the Indian isles That gem the beach where the cocoa dwells; And they blush in the braids like rosebuds there; The cocoa-nut tree, Elizabeth Oakes-Smith. WHI THE BROOK. WHITHER away, thou merry Brook, With dainty feet through the meadow green, And a smile as you hurry past?" The Brook leaped on in idle mirth, And made with the willow free. I heard its laugh adown the glen, Away where the old tree's roots were bare The sunshine flashed upon its face, And played with flickering leafWell pleased to dally in its path, Though the tarrying were brief. "Now stay thy feet, O restless one, And let thy liquid voice reveal The flashing pebbles lightly rang, As the gushing music fellThe chiming music of the Brook, From out the woody dell: "My mountain home was bleak and high, A rugged spot and drear, With searching wind and raging storm, I longed for a greeting cheery as mine, But none were in that solitude To bless the little Brook. "The blended hum of pleasant sounds Came up from the vale below, |