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In Cornwall and Across the Sea

With Poems Written in Devonshire. By Douglas B. W. Sladen

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THE TROPICS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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125

THE TROPICS.

Love we the warmth and light of tropic lands,
The strange bright fruit, the feathery fan-spread leaves,
The glowing mornings and the mellow eves,
The strange shells scattered on the golden sands,
The curious handiwork of Eastern hands,
The little carts ambled by humpbacked beeves,
The narrow outrigged native boat which cleaves,
Unscathed, the surf outside the coral strands.
Love we the blaze of colour, the rich red
Of broad tiled-roof and turban, the bright green
Of plantain-frond and paddy-field, nor dread
The fierceness of the noon. The sky serene,
The chill-less air, quaint sights, and tropic trees,
Seem like a dream fulfilled of lotus-ease.

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II.

Strange is it that imaginative men
Should thirst so for the tropics? Kingsley passed
To Western Indies with a glad “at last,”
And seldom poet but has turned his pen
To paint their glories longingly: thrice fain
Was I, from childhood's earliest days, to cast
My lot where calm blue tropic waters glassed
The feathery palm and glossy-leaved plantain,
To watch the gay-clad natives with mild eyes
Carrying quaint wares or plying some quaint trade,
To gaze where domed and gorgeous temples rise,
And lounge all day in the delicious shade
Eating rich tropic fruits, and witnessing
Some strangely fair or unfamiliar thing.