This page has been validated.
295
THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA.
When the last flush of eve is dying
On boundless lakes, afar that shine;
When winds amidst the palms are sighing,
And fragrance breathes from every pine:*[1]
When stars through cypress boughs are gleaming,
And fire-flies wander bright and free,
Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming,
My thoughts, wild Cambria! dwell with thee!
Alone o'er green savannahs roving,
When some broad stream in silence flows,
Or through th' eternal forests moving,
One only home my spirit knows!
- ↑
*The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been mentioned by travellers.
