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,
And from the wrinkled brows of Age
Their failing eyes look'd out.

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;
Unseen of them, the island flowers

Bloom'd brightly at their feet.

CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON.

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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?
The Moslem's sunset call-the dance
Of Ceylon's maids-the passing gleam
Of battle-flag and lance?

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
In trustful patience wait to feel
O'er torpid pulse and failing limb
A youthful freshness steal:

Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree
Whose healing leaves of life are shed

In answer to the breath of prayer,
Upon the waiting head:

Not to restore our failing forms,

Nor build the spirit's broken shrine,

But on the fainting SouL to shed
A light and life divine :

Shall we grow weary at our watch,
And murmur at the long delay?
Impatient of our Father's time
And his appointed way?

Or shall the stir of outward things
Allure and claim the Christian's eye,
When on the heathen watcher's ear
Their powerless murmurs die?

Alas! a deeper test of faith

Than prison-cell or martyr's stake,
The self-abasing watchfulness
Of silent prayer may make.

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;
And murmur for Abana's banks,
And Pharphar's brighter wave.

O! Thou who, in the garden's shade,
Didst wake thy weary ones again,
Who slumber'd at that fearful hour,
Forgetful of Thy pain:

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!

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The Air-Spirit.

My home is in yon fleecy cloud
The sun is gilding bright;

But you will seldom find me there-
I am the Spirit of the air!
Uncertain is my flight.

I wander through each verdant bower,
And bear the perfume on;

I cull the sweets from every flower,
And pass along at evening hour,
Welcome-and lost anon.

I swiftly glide along the deep,
And curl the slumb'ring wave;
I fill the sail, and waft along
The boatman's peaceful evening song;
Then sleep in Echo's cave.

But when my harp I lightly touch
Such magic strains I pour,
The soul that listens to my lay,

Wrapp'd in bright visions, soars away
To its own native shore.