PALO SANTO.
In the deep woods of Mexico,
Where screams the painted paroquet,
And mocking-birds flit to and fro
With borrowed notes they half forget;
Where brilliant flowers and noxinoes vines
Are mingled in a firm embrace,
And the same gaudy plant entwines
Some reptile of a poisonous race;
Where spreads the itos' icy shade,
Benumbing, even in summer's heat,
The thoughtless traveler who hath laid
Himself to noonday slumbers sweet;
Where skulks unseen the beast of prey,
The native robber glares and hides,
And treacherous death keeps watch alway
On him who flies, or he who bides:
In these deep tropic woods there grows
A tree, whose tall and silvery bole
Above the dusky forest shows,
As shining as a saintly soul
Among the souls of sinful men,
Lifting its milk-white flowers to heaven,
And breathing incense out, as when
The passing saints of earth are shriven.
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