Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.

Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -