




R. H. STODDARD. 
And stately palms in pillared ranks 
Grow down the borders of the banks, 
And juts of land where billows roar ; 
The spicy woods are full of birds, 
And golden fruits and crimson flowers ; 
With wreathed vines on every bough, 
That shed their grapes in purple showers; 
The emerald meadows roll their waves, 
And bask in soft and mellow light ; 
The vales are full of silver mist, 
And all the folded hills are bright; 
But far along the welkin’s rim 
The purple crags and peaks are dim; 
And dim the gulfs and gorges blue, 
With all the wooded passes deep ; 
All bathed in haze and washed in dew, 
And bathed in atmospheres of sleep. 
Sometimes the dusky islanders 
Lie all day long beneath the trees, 
And watch the white clouds in the sky, 
And birds upon the azure seas; 
Sometimes they wrestle on the turf, 
And chase each other down the sands; 
And sometimes climb the blooming groves 
And pluck the fruits with idle hands; 
And dark-eyed maidens braid their hair 
With starry shells, and buds, and leaves, 
And sing wild songs in dreamy bowers, 
And dance on dewy eves,— 

