How glisten the eyes of the happy leaves! 
    How whispers each blade, “I am blest!”
  Rosy heaven his lips to flowered earth gives,
    With the costliest bliss of his breast.

  Pour, pour of the wine of thy heart, O Nature,
    By cups of field and of sky,
  By the brimming soul of every creature!—­
    Joy-mad, dear Mother, am I!

  Tongues, tongues for my joy, for my joy! more tongues!—­
    Oh, thanks to the thrush on the tree,
  To the sky, and to all earth’s blooms and songs! 
    They utter the heart in me.

A TRIP TO CUBA.

[Continued.]

THE HARBOR OF HAVANA.

As we have said, there were some official mysteries connected with the arrival of our steamer in Nassau; but these did not compare with the visitations experienced in Havana.  As soon as we had dropped anchor, a swarm of dark creatures came on board, with gloomy brows, mulish noses, and suspicious eyes.  This application of Spanish flies proves irritating to the good-natured captain, and uncomfortable to all of us.  All possible documents are produced for their satisfaction,—­bill of lading, bill of health, and so on.  Still they persevere in tormenting the whole ship’s crew, and regard us, when we pass, with all the hatred of race in their rayless eyes.  “Is it a crime,” we are disposed to ask, “to have a fair Saxon skin, blue eyes, and red blood?” Truly, one would seem to think so; and the first glance at this historical race makes clear to us the Inquisition, the Conquest of Granada, and the ancient butcheries of Alva and Pizarro.

As Havana is an unco uncertain place for accommodations, we do not go on shore, the first night, but, standing close beside the bulwarks, feel a benevolent pleasure in seeing our late companions swallowed and carried off like tidbits by the voracious boatmen below, who squabble first for them and then with them, and so gradually disappear in the darkness.  On board the “Karnak” harmony reigns serene.  The custom-house wretches are gone, and we are, on the whole, glad we did not murder them.  Our little party enjoys tea and bread-and-butter together for the last time.  After so many mutual experiences of good and evil, the catguts about our tough old hearts are loosened, and discourse the pleasant music of Friendship.  An hour later, I creep up to the higher deck, to have a look-out forward, where the sailors are playing leap-frog and dancing fore-and-afters.  I have a genuine love of such common sights, and am quite absorbed by the good fun before me, when a solemn voice sounds at my left, and, looking round, I perceive Can Grande, who has come up to explain to me the philosophy of the sailor’s dances, and to unfold his theory of amusements, as far as the narrow area of one little brain (mine, not his) will permit.  His monologue, and its interruptions, ran very much as follows:—­