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| THERE is an isle which I have seen, | |
| Whose slopes and vales are fadeless green, | |
| Whose flowers are evermore in bloom, | |
| And all whose seasons breathe perfume,— | |
| The fairest of the Happy Isles | 5 |
| Whereon eternal summer smiles. | |
| There the dark cypress rears its spire | |
| Against the sunset’s tropic fire; | |
| There the palm lifts its bronze-like shaft | |
| Slow-rocking when the sea-winds waft | 10 |
| The caprioté’s song of love | |
| Where black-eyed Spanish maidens rove | |
| And roses cull for festal days, | |
| And on the passing wanderer gaze | |
| With glances passionate and keen, | 15 |
| Yet full of tenderness, I ween. | |
| |
| The lizard basks upon the walls | |
| Whereon the yellow sunlight falls, | |
| Or darts amid the cactus’ spines, | |
| Or where the purple-loaded vines | 20 |
| Over the trellis weave a bower, | |
| And deck the gray, embattled tower. | |
| Around the isle volcanic capes, | |
| In huge and castellated shapes, | |
| And ruddy rocks grotesque and weird, | 25 |
| Like giants of the deep are reared; | |
| While age to age, forevermore, | |
| The surges roll with sullen roar | |
| Upon the lava-laden shore. | |
| Enthroned on precipices grand, | 30 |
| Serene above that summer land, | |
| Gray Teneriffe in solitude | |
| Commands the ocean’s mighty flood, | |
| And his fire-riven breast enshrouds | |
| With the majestic pomp of clouds, | 35 |
| While from the crater-peak on high, | |
| Outlined stupendous in the sky, | |
| Fair wreaths of mist perpetual rise, | |
| Like daily smoke of sacrifice | |
| Burned to the immortals in the skies. | 40 |
| But when the sun draws near the verge | |
| Of the receding westering surge, | |
| O, then across the eastern sea,— | |
| Like shadow of eternity,— | |
| Impalpable, mysterious, vast, | 45 |
| The shadow of the Peak is cast, | |
| A purple mist against the arch | |
| Through which the constellations march, | |
| Until Night’s curtains are unfurled, | |
| And darkness veils the sleeping world. | 50 |
| The music of the sea-beat shores | |
| Up through the silent twilight soars, | |
| In eerie, plaintive requiem lay | |
| For a lost race long past away, | |
| A pastoral race whose bones were laid | 55 |
| In the dread cavern’s sunless shade; 1 | |
| Thy mystic murmurs soft and low | |
| By the old patriarch gently flow,— | |
| The dragon-tree whose crest upbears | |
| The burden of three thousand years. | 60 |
| By pathways where the ocean laves | |
| Their footsteps with its harmless waves, | |
| The islesmen in procession wend, | |
| Or over craggy mountains tend, | |
| To dance about the virgin’s shrine | 65 |
| While maidens form in merry line | |
| And hail the shimmering evening star | |
| With tinkle of the blithe guitar. | |
| The chime from ancient campaniles | |
| O’er lovely Orotava steals; | 70 |
| From slope to slope the music swells, | |
| Till Realejo’s silvery bells | |
| Respond among the mountain dells, | |
| And all the fragrant evening air | |
| Repeats the melody of prayer. | 75 |
