I read the story and my heart beats fast!  Well might all Europe quail before thee, France, Battling against oppression!  Years have passed, Yet of that time men speak with moistened glance. Va-nu-pieds! When rose high your Marseillaise Man knew his rights to earth’s remotest bound, And tyrants trembled.  Yours alone the praise!  Ah, had a Washington but then been found!

SONNET

    A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
      But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
      Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen;
    The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
    Amid the mango clumps of green profound,
      And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
      And o’er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
    Red—­red, and startling like a trumpet’s sound. 
    But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
      Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
    Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
      Into a cup of silver.  One might swoon
        Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
        On a primeval Eden, in amaze.

SONNET

    Love came to Flora asking for a flower
      That would of flowers be undisputed queen,
      The lily and the rose, long, long had been
    Rivals for that high honor.  Bards of power
    Had sung their claims.  “The rose can never tower
      Like the pale lily with her Juno mien”—­
      “But is the lily lovelier?” Thus between
    Flower-factions rang the strife in Psyche’s bower. 
    “Give me a flower delicious as the rose
      And stately as the lily in her pride”—­
      “But of what color?”—­“Rose-red,” Love first chose,
      Then prayed—­“No, lily-white—­or, both provide;”
      And Flora gave the lotus, “rose-red” dyed,
    And “lily-white”—­the queenliest flower that blows.

OUR CASUARINA-TREE

    Like a huge Python, winding round and round
      The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars
      Up to its very summit near the stars,
    A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound
      No other tree could live.  But gallantly
    The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung
    In crimson clusters all the boughs among,
      Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;
    And oft at nights the garden overflows
    With one sweet song that seems to have no close,
    Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose,

    When first my casement is wide open thrown
      At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;
      Sometimes, and most in winter—­on its crest
    A gray baboon sits statue-like alone
      Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs
    His puny offspring leap about and play;
    And far and near kokilas hail the day;
      And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;
    And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast
    By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,
    The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.