' ^^uiislimi 
 
ii«5ip;||i^|PPPiPjf§|^^P^ 
 
TKe Island of Sunshine 
 
 Verses by '* Tropica " 
 
LIBRARY of C0M-3RLSSJ 
 
 Two Copies 
 
 Keceived 
 
 OlC 23 
 
 1904 
 
 Couyrieht hniry 
 
 CUSS O. XXc. Noi 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 .. .-. 
 
 ,rA 
 
 Copyright, 1904 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY O. WAI.COTT 
 
 Ube Tknicf^crbocfjcr iprcss, ittcw ll)orfj 
 
*) 
 
 f 
 
 I know an island which the sun 
 
 Stays in his course to shine upon 
 
 As if it were for this green isle 
 
 Alone he kept his fondest smile ! 
 
 Long his beams delaying flood 
 
 Its remotest solitude, 
 
 Mountain, dell, and palmy wood ; 
 
 And the coral sands around 
 
 That hear the blue sea's chiming sound. 
 
 Life is all entranced, and time 
 Passes like a tinkling rhyme. 
 
 . —Edmund Ci^arence Stedman. 
 
Illustrations 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Vmw ON THE North Coast i 
 
 Photograph by Dr. Whitney 
 
 Arch in an Oi.d Aqueduct 
 
 Photograph by Dr. Whituey 
 
 Road through "Fern Gui^ly " 
 
 Photograph by J. W, C. Bretinau 
 
 Bamboos 
 
 Photograph by Duperly & Sons 
 
 Donkey with Hampers . . .' 15 
 
 Photograph by Dr. Whitney 
 
 Road by Rio Cobre and Oi.d Spanish Bridge 17 
 
 Photograph by Duperly & Sons 
 
 Mrs. Palmer's Monument in the Parish Church at Montego Bay, 23 
 Photograph by O. A. Isaacs 
 
 Cotton Tree in Bearing 25 
 
 Photograph by Dr. Whitney 
 
River in St. Mary . page 
 
 Photograph by Dr. Whitnev '••••.. 27 
 
 31 
 
 GwMPSE OF A Banana Wai^k 
 
 Photograph by Duperly & Sons ' ' ' ' 
 
 Peep at the Rio Cobre 
 
 Photograph by Duperly & Sons ''■•■• 33 
 
 Naturai, Bridge 
 
 Photograph by J. W. Cleary ' ■ • ■ • 37 
 
 A Nana of the Past 
 
 From an old Photograph " ' ' • • 39 
 
 Fort at Robin's Bay 
 
 Photograph by Dr. Whitney • • • • • . 45 
 
 A " Fourteen-Hand " Bunch 
 
 Phot6graph by Dr. Whitney ' " " ' ^^ 
 
THE ISLAND OF SUNSHINE 
 
Jamaica. 
 
 O QUAINT old isle of hidden dreams! 
 Thy lonel}^ paths, thy silent streams, 
 Thy woods and ancient ruins hold 
 Many a charming tale untold. 
 
 Many a fairy picture lies 
 Unnoticed 'neath thy tropic skies, 
 Waiting for artist yet unborn 
 To bring it from its haunts forlorn. 
 
 Many a sweet song no one sings 
 
 Sighs 'midst thy palms and crystal springs, 
 
 Trying in vain, like voiceless bird. 
 
 To make its strains of beauty heard. 
 
Indefinable. 
 
 Thky ask what is the secret of the spell 
 
 That draws me southward from their land of snow; 
 
 I hear it calling like a far-off bell — 
 But whence the glamour comes I do not know. 
 
 As visionary as that tint of green — 
 
 Pale sea-shade, seen in dawn and twilight skies; 
 As undefined and dusk}^ as the light 
 
 In woodland stretches, far from human eyes. 
 
 How can I tell why morning bird-calls thrill 
 The dreamer as he wakens from his sleep ? 
 
 How do I know why dew-drops love to fill 
 The jasmine blooms that o'er my terrace creep? 
 
 Nay, rather ask me to explain the charm 
 
 Of wind-blown palms — of leaves that shrink and close- 
 The glimmer of the fire-flies in the grass — 
 
 The opening beauty of a Southern rose. 
 
The Soul of the South. 
 
 The Soul of the vSouth is a dancer 
 
 Wreathed in a rainbow cloud, 
 Swaying to fitful music 
 
 Now dreamy, now soft, now loud; 
 Turning and whirling — glancing 
 
 A trembling star of night; 
 With footlights ever changing — 
 
 Now lurid, now dim, now bright. 
 
 The Soul of the South is a mourner 
 
 That silently stands and weeps; 
 No sound can be heard of its sorrow — 
 
 As still as a child that sleeps; 
 Yet deep in the hush of the evening 
 
 The flight of a falling leaf— 
 The murmuring voice of the river — 
 
 Something — who knows? — sighs "^Grief. 
 
 The Soul of the South is a baby, 
 
 A baby with roguish eyes; 
 A baby that laughs like a sunbeam 
 
 One moment — the next one, cries. 
 With a garland of crimson blossoms 
 
 Twined in its curly hair, 
 It looks up and smiles in mischief, 
 
 Knowing no thought of care. 
 
An Island Grove. 
 
 The sun shone through the leaves, and made 
 A dusky light, half-shine, half-shade; 
 And in the dreamy atmosphere 
 One felt that fairies might be near. 
 
 A strange, hushed stillness filled the place, 
 As if Time, charmed, had slowed his pace; 
 A woodsy scent perfumed the air 
 Of all the plants and wild-blooms there. 
 
 Uneven paths, o'ergrown b}^ ferns. 
 Wound idly, with fantastic turns; 
 But no one knew to what retreat — 
 The wood-elves kept that secret sweet. 
 
 The trees grew wild, just as they willed. 
 And mosses gray their branches filled; 
 vSometimes I thought a face peeped d 
 A tiny, mocking face, nut-brown. 
 
 own- 
 
"Now Rank Weeds thy Broken Arches Fill" 
 
 To an Old Aqueduct. 
 
 In times long-past forgotten, thou wert new 
 Old aqueduct! — fresh-built b}^ ancient skill, 
 When but a waste of trees was yonder hill, 
 And undisturbed the valley gold-ferns grew 
 While the young isle was fresh with morning dew 
 But now rank weeds thy broken arches fill, 
 And thou art left alone — so lone and still — 
 To dream of sights and forms long hid from view. 
 
 One crossed thy grassy course the other day; 
 Far, far below a tiny brooklet flowed 
 
 5 
 
And whispered to thee in low sylvan tones. 
 A tamarind tree grown wild once barred the road; 
 And once he found an orchid 'midst thj^ stones — 
 An orchid golden as a sunset ray. 
 
 Bronze and Green. 
 
 Dancing, glancing, swaying, playing, 
 
 Shimmering, glimmering, brightening, lightening, 
 
 Parting, darting, shining, twining, 
 
 Glowing in the sunlight's sheen — 
 
 Now green and bronze — now bronze and green. 
 
 Bending down in bronzy masses — 
 Turning, flashing, green as grasses; 
 Mingling till no light between 
 Pierces through the bronze and green. 
 
 Now, reluctant, letting through 
 Just a peep of cloud and blue; 
 By-and-by, a little more; 
 Then fast closing as before. 
 
 Brightening, lightening, shining, twining, 
 Parting, darting, beaming, gleaming. 
 Dancing, glancing, swaying, playing 
 Flashing, dashing, glittering, glowing — 
 The starapple leaves in the wind are blowing. 
 6 
 
The Light Between the Logwood Leaves. 
 
 The light between the logwood leaves 
 Out, in and out, its brightness weaves; 
 And silver spangles fill the trees 
 That change with every passing breeze. 
 
 The light between the logwood leaves 
 Grows mystic with the dusky eves; 
 But with the morning sun's first beam 
 A thousand splintered diamonds gleam. 
 
 Now here, now there, like restless stars, 
 The bits of light peep through green bars; 
 A bright imprisoned band that grieves 
 vShut close within the logwood leaves. 
 
 Yet how can dancing beams be sad ?— 
 They 're Bo-peep players, blithe and glad; 
 Or else thy flickering glance deceives— 
 Ah, light between tiie logw^ood leaves! 
 
Ferns. 
 
 AlIv along the roadsides, 
 
 Over rock}' walls, 
 Hidden 'midst the bushes, 
 
 Splashed by waterfalls, 
 Where the island streamlets 
 
 Sparkle on the ground. 
 Deep in tangled gullies — 
 
 There the ferns are found. 
 
 From the spreading tree-fern 
 
 With its leaves of lace, 
 To the tiny filmy, 
 
 All are full of grace; 
 Ever}^ crumbling ruin, 
 
 Every fallen stone, 
 Softens into beauty 
 
 B}' the ferns o'ergrown. 
 
 Bright with golden powder, 
 
 Touched with silvery sheen, 
 Pink as shells of ocean. 
 
 Decked in tender green — 
 Star-leaves seed-embroidered, 
 
 Daint}^ maidenhair — - 
 O'er our lovely island 
 
 Ferns are everv where. 
 
All Along the Roadsides" 
 
 Star-Ferns. 
 
 We wonder what becomes of fallen stars; — 
 Perhaps those ferns that in our valleys grow 
 
 Once burned high in the heavens, but were changed 
 To brown-veined leaves as they fell lost and low. 
 
Bamboos. 
 
 Great feathers waving 
 Bright in the breeze, 
 
 Light as the surf- spray 
 On Southern seas; 
 
 Up hillsides curving, 
 Soft waves of green, 
 
 Meeting in arches, 
 Blue sky between. 
 
 O, the deep shadows 
 
 In dusky glades! 
 Blending unending 
 
 Green lights and shades; 
 
 Plumes of green leaflets, 
 Tossed by the breeze, 
 
 Like wavelets breaking 
 On Southern seas. 
 
'W 
 
 
 " Plumes of Green Leaflets 
 
Song of the Coffee Field. 
 
 In blossom-time such showers 
 
 Of whiteness cloud the trees, 
 That one might think a snow-storm 
 
 Had blown across the seas; 
 But by the spicy odor 
 
 That fills the air, we know 
 'T is but a fall of flowers 
 
 And not of cold white snow. 
 
 When later come the berries 
 
 We watch them day by day. 
 Until beneath their burden 
 
 The branches bend and sway; 
 Then forth we wander gayly 
 
 The harvest bright to glean, 
 While red as Northern cherries 
 
 They glow amid the green. 
 
 And when the fields forsaken 
 
 Show har-s^est-time is past, 
 And onh^ scattered berries 
 
 Still linger on — the last, 
 Though stripped of fruit and flowers, 
 
 No touch of winter grieves; 
 For chill winds have not taken 
 
 The glossy, dark-green leaves. 
 
So whether flutter briglitly 
 
 Sweet blossoms in the breeze, 
 Or 'neath their weight of berries 
 
 Bend low the laden trees — 
 Each season has its beauty; 
 
 And if but leaves are there, 
 Some hint of promise lighth^ 
 
 Is whispered through the air! 
 
 To the Donkey. 
 
 Patient little donkey! 
 
 O 'er the dustj^ road 
 To the busy market 
 
 Carrying your load; 
 Yams, bananas, plantains — 
 
 In your hampers w^ide, 
 While a little Quashie 
 
 Proudly sits astride. 
 And .sometimes you carry 
 
 Quashie' s father too — 
 (Poor, weak, fragile creature!) 
 
 Bigger far than you. 
 13 
 
Cunning little donkey ! 
 
 Garbed in Quaker gray, 
 Trotting so sedately 
 
 In your passive way; 
 Yet despite the meekness 
 
 In those gentle eyes, 
 You are shrewd, O donkey — 
 
 Very worldly-wise! 
 If your steps are too much 
 
 Hastened by the stick. 
 Then your docile manner 
 
 Changes: — and you kick. 
 
 Useful little donkey! 
 
 A true friend you are 
 When the human helpers 
 
 Seem but few and far; 
 And Jamaica's commerce 
 
 You do more to aid 
 Than some folk who wisely 
 
 Chatter of our trade. 
 With a shrewd, sly twinkle 
 
 In your e3'e you walk 
 Straight ahead — and get there, 
 
 While they talk and talk. 
 
 Noble little donkey! 
 W^ould n't it be grand 
 14 
 
If your lead were foUovved 
 Throughout all this land! 
 
 ' ' Donkey for a leader ? ' ' 
 Some say with a smile; 
 
 Very Worldly-Wise" 
 
 Yes — be like the donkey — ■ 
 
 Try it for a while! 
 Were we all as useful, 
 
 Donke}^ as are you, 
 Then would prospects brighten 
 
 And our woes be few. 
 15 
 
The Heart of the Island. 
 
 He never has known the Island who never has watched the dew 
 On leaves in the earl}' morning, before the gray sky is blue; 
 Who knows not the little thatched houses with coffee groves behind. 
 And feels not the glow of sunlight on white roads that ever wind. 
 
 He never has known the Island who never as friend has seen 
 The tiny white churches hidden far off in the hills of green; 
 Who never at " Social meetings " has joined in the laughter gay, . 
 And eaten buns with the children, and felt the joy of the da3^ 
 
 He never has known the Island who never has truly known 
 And felt with the simple people, as if the\' were of his own; 
 Who never has talked with the woman bearing her market load, 
 And heard the yam-diggers singing at night on a lonely road. 
 
 He never will know the Island who feels no thrill at the roar 
 Of the sea that beats around it and splashes the palms on shore; 
 Who never can love the tangle of sea-grapes on the sand; 
 But the Island's heart is open to him who can understand! 
 
 i6 
 
White Roads that tver vvuici 
 
 17 
 
Songs of Exile. 
 
 The moving lights and shadows of the South, — 
 The color-changes at the close of da}', — 
 
 The shifting shades of green among the palms, — 
 The slightl3^-varying tones of leaves at pla}-; 
 
 The blending greens and bronzes — all the wealth 
 Of color in the crotons' gorgeous hues; 
 
 Ah, moving lights and shadows of the South! 
 I tire of these clear, cold graj^s and blues. 
 
 II. 
 
 The landscape slowly fades away, 
 The woods in the distance die; 
 
 And slowly, strangely, amidst the gray, 
 A warm touch steals in the sky. 
 
 Where the maple stood a moment ago 
 
 Is a tree with leaves of lace, 
 And crimson blossoms that seem to glow 
 
 Like flames in the sombre place. 
 
 i8 
 
The Old Plantation Homes. 
 
 They are passing — passing swiftly, the old plantation homes 
 
 Those statel}^, spacious homes of long ago; 
 
 And of their vanished beauty, little to-day we know; — 
 The wanderer sees but fragments as he roams. 
 
 Yet still some mansions of the past remain, 
 With deeply carven walls and polished floors ; 
 In cobwebbed corners or behind dark doors 
 
 Sometimes still lurks a dim, mysterious stain. 
 
 They stand, reminders of far-off delights 
 
 When W^ealth and Ease went blithely hand-in-hand; 
 Reminders of a time when our fair land 
 
 Was but a plaj^ground for gay lords and knights. 
 
 They are passing — passing swiftly, the old plantation homes ; 
 Of glittering days gone by — the pageant and the show — 
 Is left — a ruined arch, a gateway fallen low, 
 
 A fort fast crumbling where the wild sea foams. 
 
 19 
 
Rose Hall. 
 
 Above the sea, across the plain, 
 Through pale-green reaches of waving cane 
 That rustle low like the coming rain — 
 The white road leads by the gray stone wall 
 To old Rose Hall. 
 
 Weather-beaten and plain outside, 
 Within, the moth and rust cannot hide 
 The beauty of doors and staircase wide; 
 And floor bright-polished as for a ball 
 At old Rose Hall. 
 
 The house was built long, long ago, 
 As the careful finish and carvings show; 
 And the handiwork was sure and slow; 
 Else years gone by would have seen the fall 
 Of old Rose Hall. 
 
 A queer old woman with a broom 
 Shows dusky stains in a certain room 
 And tells you . . . the shadows darker loom 
 While thrice-repeated you hear a call 
 Ring through Rose Hall. 
 
 You hear — if you 're one of the charming few 
 That step not to ask — " A fact ? 't is true f " 
 20 
 
If not — why, of course the stains look new, 
 And the thrilling stories onh' pall 
 About Rose Hall. 
 
 You love the stairs — if 3^ou understand; 
 The crumbling cornice — the archway grand 
 As you look at the sea across the land 
 Through the waving canes, 3^ou feel it all, — 
 And know Rose Hall. 
 
 Twilight. 
 
 The gold, the blue, and the crimson 
 
 Have paled and faded away; 
 And the skies that were lately so brillian 
 
 Are covered with clouds of gray. 
 
 Out of my heart with the sunset 
 
 The glow of the tropics dies; 
 The gold and the blue and the crimson 
 
 That shone in the Southern skies. 
 
At Mrs. Palmer's Monument. 
 
 We watch the guardian spirit 
 
 Hold genth' o'er thy head 
 The never-fading garland, — 
 
 And all the tales of dread 
 Flee like a dream, fair lady! 
 
 The marble's dazzling cold 
 Makes far and dim those stories 
 
 By harsh Tradition told. 
 
 What though a faint blue circle 
 
 Just stains the perfect white. 
 And at its base the marble 
 
 Is touched with crimson light ?- 
 We heed not idle gossip 
 
 Or half- forgotten tales, 
 That gather gruesome meaning 
 
 When heard as daylight fails. 
 
 We cannot hate thee, lady. 
 
 Here in this peaceful place, 
 So near the altar's roses, 
 
 The guardian spirit's face; 
 Howe'er those ancient rumors 
 
 And legends dark had birth,— 
 Thy monument speaks only 
 
 Of kindness and of worth! 
 
23 
 
Retrospect. 
 
 The long, straight stretches of pahii- lined road, 
 The donkey trotting beneath its load, — 
 How real it seems to me! 
 
 The glow of the poinciana trees, 
 
 The bamboos like green plumes tossed in the breeze, 
 Light as waves of the sea. 
 
 The heavy scent of the noontide air. 
 The broom-flowers' droop in the sun's hot glare, — 
 The South 's all red and gold! 
 
 The gray- walled works of the lone estate. 
 The rusty boiler down by the gate, — 
 So old, so old, so old. 
 
 The cotton tree with its twisted vines, 
 The mangrove swamp where the sun never shines, — 
 Dusk}^ at height of da3^ 
 
 What is the end of this endless strife? 
 O, the days are stern when one's dream leaves life! — 
 The South is far away. 
 
 24 
 
" The Cotton Tree " 
 
 A Picture — Unpainted. 
 
 In the foreground a moss-grown stone trough 
 
 Where horses no longer drink, 
 And unchecked weeds and grasses 
 
 Peep over the broken brink; 
 Then far waste stretches of logwood ; 
 
 In the distance a strip of gra}^ 
 Where the ocean, like duU-hued silver, 
 
 Shines in the dying da}- 
 The red sky burns and flushes, 
 
 Unanswered by sea below; 
 And highest, dark clouds are glooming, 
 
 Shot through with a sullen glow. 
 25 
 
The Undertone. 
 
 But hearing oftentimes 
 
 The still, sad music of humanity. 
 
 — Wordsworth. 
 
 Beneath the brightness of the Southern day 
 I seem to hear a dull, half-stifled moan; 
 
 Beneath the mirthful sound of children's play 
 A low, complaining note — the undertone. 
 
 The far, faint cry of wounded slaves in chains; 
 
 The struggle of some falling soul alone; 
 The blood that darkens with its crimson stains 
 
 A girlish hand — these are the undertone. 
 
 Tlie sins and .sorrows of those far-off times 
 Whose echoes are to us so faintly blown; 
 
 The cruel deeds beneath the flowering limes 
 (As fair as now)— these are the undertone. 
 
 Beneath the brightness of the Southern day 
 I seem to hear a dull, half-stifled moan; 
 
 " Old nurses' tales! " "All nonsense! " do you say ? 
 Ah, mind your words! Hark — hear the undertone! 
 
 26 
 
When the Sunlight Touches the River. 
 
 When the sunlight touches the river, and a bend that was lost to view 
 In the shadows of dusky da3dight, springs from the haze of blue, 
 Our eyes catch the careless motion, and dance with the dazzling gleam 
 When the sunlight touches the river, and wakens the silent stream. 
 
 When the sunlight touches the river, in the freshness of early da}', 
 x\nd the sober path of the waters ripples and laughs in play. 
 The soul comes forth from its shadows, forgetful of fancied wrong, 
 For the sunlisfht touches the river, and wakens the heart with sone! 
 
 27 
 
An Island Spring. 
 
 From the cool rock-filters 
 
 Many times distilled, 
 With the mountain freshness 
 
 And pure coldness filled, 
 Comes a tiny trickle, 
 
 Just a silver gleam, — 
 This is the beginning 
 
 Of an island stream! 
 
 Winding on with many 
 
 Sudden, wayward turns; 
 Splashing as it passes 
 
 Merrily the ferns; 
 Dashing, half in fury. 
 
 Half in boisterous play, 
 'Gainst a mossy boulder 
 
 That has barred its way. 
 
 'Neath the lace of leaf- work 
 By roseapples made, 
 
 Flowing gently, softly. 
 In the cool green shade; 
 
 Now through arching bamboos- 
 Then slow-gliding where 
 
 Fragrant ginger-lilies 
 Scent the evening air. 
 28 
 
Lingering for a moment 
 
 In a rocky pool, 
 Watching soft-eyed cattle 
 
 Drink the water cool, — 
 Children filling bamboos, — 
 
 Women washing clothes; 
 Then with restless motion 
 
 Onward still it goes. 
 
 Soon it ceases, playing 
 
 In a waterfall, 
 Hearing not the voices 
 
 Of the great deep call; 
 Till some kindly river 
 
 Takes it 'neath its wing, 
 And flows seaward with our 
 
 Little island spring! 
 
 29 
 
Under the Roseapple Boughs. 
 
 The play of light on the water — the mingled darkness and shine — 
 The blending of real and vision where shadow and leaf entwine — 
 The cool, clear green of the water where silently drink the cows, 
 All in the hnsh of evening — nnder the roseapple bonghs. 
 
 The network of bending branches that peep in the stream below, 
 And sway with a wind-swept motion, silently, soft, and slow; 
 The sky and the snn-flecked water — the shadows, the resting cows- 
 The peace and the beauty of evening — under the roseapple boughs. 
 
 30 
 
'oad VVi IT 1- 1- rti \ e< I Leu ve- 
 
 in a Banana Walk. 
 
 lyONG aisles made dusky by broad wind-frayed leaves 
 That bend and arch the narrow pathway o'er 
 Like green waves curving as they reach the shore. 
 Some touched with yellow of the autumn sheaves — 
 Not bright, but as a beam of sun that grieves 
 Left lonely when its comrades shine no more. 
 Like sunset rays that pierce a fretted door 
 Throuo:h emerald lattice-work a dull lieht weaves. 
 
 im 
 
 31 
 
No sound is heard, no varying color seen, 
 Save here and there a dash of daring red 
 Where — flame of harmless fire in the grass — 
 Some wilding lih- glows amid the green; 
 Or from the cool, dim archwa}- overhead 
 A polished leaf sways slowly as we pass. 
 
 The Golden Table. 
 
 (A Legend of the Rio Cobfe.) 
 
 Sparki^ing, flashing, gleaming, glowing, 
 
 Where no eye can see its ra3's, 
 Rests the mystic Golden Table 
 
 Dreaming dreams of olden days. 
 'Neath the Cobre's silver waters 
 
 It has lain for ages long; 
 And an undertone of warning 
 
 Mingles with the river's song. 
 
 Just at noon (so sa3\s the legend) 
 
 Comes the Table every day 
 Softly to the river's surface. 
 
 Where the yellow sunbeams pla}^; 
 For one magic moment lingers, 
 
 Then*sinks slowly out of sight. 
 While its crj-stal prison shimmers 
 
 In a cloud of burnished light. 
 32 
 

 mm 
 
 
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 ,>^mm^^ 
 
 ^^^^: 
 
 
 '*■ 'iA.-.vii. j*ir- -^^ 
 
 r^ 
 
 "The Cobre's Silver Waters' 
 
 Since it sank that far-oif evening 
 
 'Midst the lightning and the rain, 
 Never man has found the Table; 
 
 All his seeking has been vain. 
 Still the jealous Cobre guards it, 
 
 Safe concealed from human e3'e,— 
 While it charms its golden captive 
 
 With an endless lullab}-. 
 33 
 
A Mountain Manse. 
 
 Far up among the mountains, 
 
 Reached b}- a path o'ergrovvn 
 By ferns and tangled creepers, — 
 
 An old Manse stands alone. 
 
 Green hills and purple mountains 
 
 Like guardians rise about; 
 From two peaks in the distance 
 
 A bit of sea gleams out. 
 
 Within the yard a mango 
 
 Spreads great roots gnarled and old, 
 And tamarind trees their lace-work 
 
 Of feather}' leaves unfold. 
 
 Behind a veil of palm-fronds 
 
 The vSh}^ Manse hides unseen, 
 And peeps through breeze-blown branches 
 
 Safe in its bower of green. 
 
 The great world whirls forgotten; 
 
 Here a charmed silence lies — 
 While the old Manse stands dreaming 
 
 Beneath the Southern skies. 
 
 34 
 
Job's Tears. 
 
 And be sat dowu atnoug the ashes. 
 
 —Job ii. 8. 
 
 If one dark ash-stained tear-drop in, its course 
 
 Had been arrested b}' some magic force 
 
 And crystallized into a polished bead 
 
 It would have been like this gray, ashen seed; 
 
 Which, with no flash of diamond, sheen of pearl, 
 
 Seems jewel made for modest Quaker girl. 
 
 A touch of Job's own rare poetic flame 
 
 Had he — or she — who first conceived the name; 
 
 And watched the wild plants, growing green and lush 
 
 By marsh and stream, like Bildad's flag and rush. 
 
 The world's great drama, fresh through countless years, 
 
 Comes to us always when we see "Job's Tears." 
 
 35 
 
Natural Bridge. 
 
 A GIANT arch not made by human hands, 
 
 But hewn by Nature from the solid rock; 
 
 In vain the patient, waiting centuries knock 
 
 Against the massive walls, and still it stands 
 
 Above its river sparkling o'er the sands. 
 
 Firm and unmoved b}^ time and earthquake shock. 
 
 Far down below, gra}' wave-worn boulders block 
 The river's path. Along the walls bold bands 
 Of restless, twittering swallows fly about, 
 Their music blending with the water's sound. 
 Wee bird-heads from a thousand air}- nests 
 Peep, filled with birdling wonder, shyly out. 
 Dull muffled echoes dimly ring around; 
 But 'neath the noise a mighty silence rests. 
 
 3f> 
 
'm 
 
 37 
 
At Daybreak, 
 
 O THE freshness of the morning in the Sonth! 
 
 The cool blue shadows underneath the hills; 
 The purple haze that with elusive light 
 
 The mist-encircled mountain-valley fills. 
 
 O the freshness of the morning in the South! 
 
 The palm-leaves quivering with their weight of dew 
 The wakening sun that peeps dow^n, faintl}^ bright — 
 
 The sky's cold gray just melting into blue. 
 
 O the freshness of the morning in the South! 
 
 The silence in the hush of opening day — 
 Before the w^ork- sounds come to break the charm 
 
 And still the music of the elves at play. 
 
 38 
 
Nana. 
 
 With the old homes are going 
 
 The Nanas of past days, 
 With their gay stiff-starched kerchiefs 
 
 And dear old-fashioned ways; 
 They disappeared with other 
 
 Quaint things too good to last; 
 And seldom now we see them — 
 
 Those pictures of the past! 
 39 
 
The strange " Anancy " stories, 
 
 And legends weird and old 
 Which after patient coaxing 
 
 Were in the twihght told 
 To breathless, wide-eyed children — 
 
 We hardly hear to-day; 
 A few faint echoes linger — 
 
 The rest have passed awa3^ 
 
 But in the days of plenty, 
 
 When " Old Jamaica " flowed, 
 And heavy, lumbering coaches 
 
 Rolled o'er the dusty road, — 
 When railway, street car, tourist, 
 
 Were to the isle unknown, — 
 Then each true household boasted 
 
 A "Nana" of its own. 
 
 The children came to Nana 
 
 With every trifling tear. 
 And feared no foe in armor 
 
 When her strong arm was nea 
 For childish ills no doctor 
 
 Was torn from sleep at night; 
 A cup of Nana's "bush-tea," — 
 
 And all would soon be right. 
 
 40 
 
At christenings and weddings 
 
 She played a shining part, 
 And every household function 
 
 Owned Nana as its heart ; 
 At balls she peeped through doorways 
 
 To see " Young Missis" dance, 
 And beamed if for a moment 
 
 She caught the girl's bright glance. 
 
 While all else changed around her 
 
 She kept the same old place, 
 Till like some faithful guide-post 
 
 Became the kindly face; 
 For to " Ole Massa's fam'ly " 
 
 Her life was rooted fast : 
 In fanc}^ we can see her — 
 
 The Nana of the past! 
 
 41 
 
Christmas in Jamaica. 
 
 Soft snow-white bells bloom ever}- year 
 As soon as Christmas-time draws near; 
 And children b}^ the wayside stop 
 To pluck the dainty " Christmas Pop." 
 
 The sugar-cane comes out in bloom 
 And thrusts aloft its silken plume; 
 Kach little shrub dons garments gay 
 In honor of the holida^^ 
 
 Though the keen breath of Northern pines 
 Is missing, 3'et, all draped in vines, 
 Fair as its rival o'er the sea, 
 The lignum-vitae makes our tree. 
 
 x\nd on the Christmas evening bright 
 The " Great-house " grand is full of light: 
 While Christmas joy and glad good-will 
 The dusky Southern faces fill. 
 
 Each servant of the house is there — 
 From Nana, dressed with Sunday care, 
 To little Quamin, whose round eyes 
 Are full of wonder and surprise. 
 
 As " Father Christmas" to each hands 
 The gift that most his need demands, 
 
 42 
 
Some telling "local hit" he makes, 
 At which the hall with laughter shakes. 
 
 He says,—" Though of small use to-day 
 My prancing steeds and jingling sleigh, 
 A donkey and two hampers wide 
 Holds well my store ; I like to ride. 
 
 " I 've spent so many busy hours 
 Looking for tempting fruit and flowers, 
 Within the Christmas markets bright. 
 To deck our Christmas tree to-night. 
 
 ' ' For I know Southern girls and boys 
 Are just as fond of sweets and toys 
 As those small rogues who used to try 
 To snow-ball me as I flew by." 
 
 The storied strains of minstrel's lute 
 For many ages have been mute; 
 But just as sweet to untrained ear 
 The concertina that we hear. 
 
 Many a joyous laugh rings gay 
 From those wdio at "snap-dragon " play 
 And many a finger in the flame 
 Gets burnt as wilder grows the game. 
 43 
 
To make the merry scene complete, 
 Oft a quick sound of hurrying feet 
 Is heard as blushing maidens go 
 Past the huge bunch of mistletoe. 
 
 For strange would seem a Christmas night 
 Without that ancient parasite; 
 And North and South must both bow low 
 Before the reign of Mistletoe. 
 
 Through open doors a faint perfume 
 Of jasmine comes and fills the room: 
 Some voice sings soft beneath the mirth — 
 " Good- will to men, and peace on earth," 
 
 1. c^ai 
 
 44 
 
'The Little Fort 
 
 At Robin's Bay. 
 
 At Robin's Bay the copl, fresh scent of brine 
 
 Is mingled with the sweet breath of the kine ; 
 
 For in the quiet pastures cattle graze — 
 
 Above the crags where foamy water plays — 
 
 Around the fortress where the wild fio^s twine. 
 
 Keep thy old ruined castle on the Rhine! 
 The little fort unstoried sla^ll.be niine; 
 All oflorified bv Fancy's eolden haze — 
 
 At Robin's Bay 
 
 45 
 
Though far away I see the bright waves shine, 
 Or in the twilight watch the distant line 
 Where white ships glide — the ships of other days; 
 And hear the ocean, while the last sun-rays 
 Touch the green almond with its arching vine — 
 At Robin's Bav. 
 
 An Eastern Note. 
 
 TherK is an Eastern note within our land. — 
 A foreign flower springing up alone 
 Has, ere we knew it, in our garden grown; 
 A blossom whose first breath of life was fanned 
 In its far home on "India's coral strand." 
 A throbbing minor movement not our own 
 Lends to the South its weird elusive tone, 
 Like strain of alien music in a band. 
 
 A tangled mass of waveless, coal-black hair; 
 
 A flash of silver on a brown, bare arm; 
 
 Deep eyes like bits of star-strewn midnight sky. 
 
 With head erect, a proudW distant air, 
 
 And gliding motion fraught with subtle charm,- 
 
 Like crowned queen the Eastern girl goes by. 
 
 46 
 
Blinkeys. 
 
 LiTTi^E brown-clad insects, so denuireh' drest, 
 Those bright starr}^ hmterns hardly suit the rest 
 Of 3^our simple costume ; you are Quaker maids 
 Mingling costly jewels w^itli plain, quiet shades! 
 But perhaps that dusky satin garb you wear 
 Serves but as a setting for the lamps you l^ear. 
 
 They are wondrous lanterns, and their mystic light 
 With a clear soft brilliance penetrates the night ; 
 Not like hard, cold diamond — softer, tenderer far; 
 Like the glow^ of moonlight, or the evening star. 
 If that liquid lustre could be crystallized, 
 More than pearl or ruby would its worth be prized. 
 
 When night falls around us, then your wee lamps glow 
 In the trees' dark branches, on the ground below; 
 You are busy, blinkeys, though 3'ou seem to play; 
 You are " on for duty " at the close of day; 
 And vour w'ork is simply— with unceasing gleam 
 To make all this island like a fairv dream! 
 
 47 
 
Night. 
 
 Twilight brief is dying, 
 
 And the shadows fall; 
 From the still, dark bushes 
 
 Comes the night-bird's call; 
 Thousands of wee insects 
 
 Start their evening choirs; 
 On the dusky hillsides 
 
 Glow the orange fires. 
 
 Jewel-lights of blinkeys 
 
 Sparkle all around; 
 From the far-off highroad 
 
 Slow winds bring the sound 
 Of yam-diggers singing 
 
 On their home- return; 
 Deeper grow the shadows; 
 
 Bright the fires burn. 
 
 All the rounded curvings 
 
 Of the mountains die; 
 Close they stand, sharp-outlined 
 
 'Gainst a painted sky; 
 They are hills in vStageland — 
 
 We are at a pla}' ; 
 When this act is finished. 
 
 They will fade awa3\ 
 48 
 
Fair the scene, and life-like! — 
 
 Now a sudden change 
 Comes: a light is rising 
 
 O'er the pictured range! 
 Soft!}' plays the music 
 
 (All will vanish soon; — 
 While between the bamboos 
 
 Peeps the tropic moon. 
 
 49 
 
The Tourist. 
 
 When the soft Southern breezes 
 
 Hold a faint, distant hint 
 Of that strong Northern tonic 
 
 That gives the leaves their tint, — 
 Then comes the Tourist to us 
 
 Our sunny days to share; 
 All brisk, alert, and smiling, 
 
 And ga}' and debonair. 
 
 He revels in bananas 
 
 (A hand he calls a " bunch") — 
 Eats them each da}^ for breakfast. 
 
 For dinner and for lunch; 
 Mistakes our Avocados 
 
 For luscious Bartlett pears; 
 Instead of gills gives shillings — 
 
 Pays busmen dollar fares. 
 
 A battered cutlass charms him; 
 
 How pleasing to displa}^ — 
 "A famous machete, blunted 
 
 In many a bygone fray "; 
 While happy rum-shop keepers 
 
 Sell all their mildewed signs, 
 And flaunt bright new ones, showing 
 
 The same " old-world " designs. 
 50 
 
He Revels in Bananas" 
 51 
 
He buys cracked threepence soup-plates, 
 
 And thinks his bargain rare, 
 To get for half-a-dollar 
 
 Such curious ancient ware; 
 He "tips" the hicky native 
 
 If he but lifts his hand: 
 And brings a stir and sparkle 
 
 To this old sleepy land. 
 
 It 's simply a long picnic 
 
 When, tired of Life's race. 
 He conies to play a moment 
 
 In this strange palm-girt place: 
 He overlooks our failures, — 
 
 Bears good-will toward all men: 
 And when he sails, the breezes 
 
 Sigh seaward, " Come again! " 
 
 52 
 
The Glory of Jamaica. 
 
 When first our mountains' purple across the waves was seen, 
 And wondering eyes first watched it change slowly into green, 
 Perhaps the weary sailors forgot their golden quest, 
 As Fancy brought them pictures of endless peace and rest, 
 That peace which calms the spirit, the restless heart-beat stills- 
 The peace be^'ond all knowledge that rests upon the hills. 
 
 Though here a crumbling ruin, and there a fort o'ergrown. 
 Tell of the vanished splendor of times now little known, 
 Still rise the fadeless mountains, as beautiful to-day 
 As when Columbus saw them, mist-circled, far away; 
 First sight to greet the native and thrill his loyal heart — 
 The last to leave the vision as outbound ships depart. 
 
 With rainbow lights of promise forever touched they stand, 
 
 Like sentinels immortal to guard our precious land; 
 
 The onh^ blight of winter the wooded summits know 
 
 Is the morning mist around them like wreaths of Alpine snow. 
 
 And the true heart of Jamaica with proud affection fills 
 
 For the Island's greatest glory — her guard of noble hills. 
 
 53 
 
The South to the North. 
 
 Ah, something subtly sweet has left one's life 
 When these encircling mountains fade from view, 
 And all the palm-lined shore seems strange and new 
 i\s outbound ship glides far upon the blue. 
 
 The deep, bewildering scent of Southern flowers. 
 The freshness of green palms that ever sway, 
 The dazzling blue of skies at height of day, — 
 Something has gone, when these are gone away. 
 
 The song of mountain springs is rudely hushed 
 By martial tones more harsh than trumpets' blare; 
 A lingering fragrance of the flowers fair 
 Is crushed by the sharp, cruel Northern air. 
 
 Life seems a tract of moorland bleak and gray, 
 With no gleam of the South's rich red and gold; 
 Sharp, piercing winds the trembling limbs enfold. 
 And all is outer darkness, gloom and cold. 
 
 54 
 
The North to the South. 
 
 When something leaves one's life — the heav}' scent 
 Of Southern flowers, weighted down by dew; 
 
 The sensuous sway of bending palms — the arch 
 Of noonday skies, one broad expanse of blue ; 
 
 The simple joy of living, unperplexed 
 
 By life's rough battle in the world's mad glare; 
 
 The low, soft sound of mountain streams, instead 
 Of horns and fifes and nois}^ trumpets' blare — 
 
 Then comes the stronger, fiercer joy of work- 
 Hard fight and struggle 'gainst a powerful foe; 
 
 The hail — the driving sleet — the piercing cold — 
 The winter's chilling ice and blinding snow. 
 
 The bitter tonic of the Northern winds 
 
 Is kinder than the flowers' sweet perfume; 
 
 And gentler than the Southern light and warmth 
 Is all the cold, the darkness, and the gloom. 
 
 55 
 
DEC 23 1904