The Cypress-Tree of Ceylon. IBN BATUTA, the celebrated Mussulman traveler of the fourteenth century, speaks of a cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the inhabitants, the leaves of which were said to fall only at long and uncertain periods; and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them, was restored at once to youth and vigor. The traveler saw several venerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the tree, patiently waiting the falling of a leaf. THEY sat in silent watchfulness The sacred cypress-tree about, Gray Age and Sickness waiting there, Through weary night and ling'ring day; Grim as the idols at their side, And motionless as they. Unheeded in the boughs above, The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet; Bloom'd brightly at their feet. CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. 63 O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, The thunder crash'd on rock and hill; The lightning wrapp'd them like a shroud, Yet there they waited still! What was the world without to them? They waited for that falling leaf Of which the wand'ring Jogees sing, Which lends once more to wintry Age The greenness of its Spring. O! if these poor and blinded ones Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree In answer to the breath of prayer, Not to restore our failing forms, Nor build the spirit's broken shrine, But on the fainting SouL to shed Shall we grow weary at our watch, Or shall the stir of outward things Alas! a deeper test of faith Than prison-cell or martyr's stake, We gird us bravely to rebuke Our erring brother in the wrong; And in the ear of Pride and Power Our warning voice is strong. Easier to smite with Peter's sword Than watch one hour in humbling prayer; Life's "great things," like the Syrian lord, Our souls can do and dare. CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. But O! we shrink from Jordan's side From waters which alone can save; O! Thou who, in the garden's shade, Bend o'er us now, as over them, And set our sleep-bound spirits free; Nor leave us slumbering in the watch Our souls should keep with Thee! 65 The Air-Spirit. My home is in yon fleecy cloud But you will seldom find me there- I wander through each verdant bower, I cull the sweets from every flower, I swiftly glide along the deep, But when my harp I lightly touch Wrapp'd in bright visions, soars away |