FRUIT OF OLD.
35
Ionian surges rolling to the shore.
Not every soil will every tree adorn;
The willows by the river marge are born,
The alders still the fat morass prefer, 130
The barren wild-ash loves the mountain spur:
The shores with myrtle laugh; the grape-vines woo
The upland sun, north winds and frost the yew.
Now mark the world and them that dwell therein— 135
Her utmost confines, e'en the Arab's home,
And where Geloni in their war-paint roam.
Each tree shall claim its fatherland and kin.
Black ebon grows on Indian ground alone,
While Sheba waves the incense-spray her own. 140
Why sing of balsam's perfumed sweat to thee,
And pods of evergreen acanthus tree?
Of Ethiop forests hoar with fluttering fleece,
And downy foliage carded by Chinese?
The woods of India, hard by ocean's roar, 145
The furthest elbow of the round world's shore?
No flight of arrow may surmount the breeze
Which fans the summit of those Indian trees;
Although the native archer be not slack,
Not every soil will every tree adorn;
The willows by the river marge are born,
The alders still the fat morass prefer, 130
The barren wild-ash loves the mountain spur:
The shores with myrtle laugh; the grape-vines woo
The upland sun, north winds and frost the yew.
Now mark the world and them that dwell therein— 135
Her utmost confines, e'en the Arab's home,
And where Geloni in their war-paint roam.
Each tree shall claim its fatherland and kin.
Black ebon grows on Indian ground alone,
While Sheba waves the incense-spray her own. 140
Why sing of balsam's perfumed sweat to thee,
And pods of evergreen acanthus tree?
Of Ethiop forests hoar with fluttering fleece,
And downy foliage carded by Chinese?
The woods of India, hard by ocean's roar, 145
The furthest elbow of the round world's shore?
No flight of arrow may surmount the breeze
Which fans the summit of those Indian trees;
Although the native archer be not slack,
