In the Nicobar Islands, each cottage you see

Is built of the trunk of the cocoa-nut tree,

While its leaves, matted thickly and many times o'er, Make a thatch for its roof and a mat for its floor;

Its shells the dark islander's beverage hold-

'Tis a goblet as pure as a goblet of gold.

Oh, the cocoa-nut tree,

That blooms by the sea,

Is the tree of all trees for me!

In the Nicobar Isles, of the cocoa-nut tree
They build the light shallop-the wild, the free;
They weave of its fibres so firm a sail,

It will weather the rudest southern gale;
They fill it with oil, and with coarse jaggherry-
With arrack and coir, from the cocoa-nut tree.
The lone, the free,

That dwells in the roar

Of the echoing shore

Oh, the cocoa-nut tree for me!

Rich is the cocoa-nut's milk and meat,
And its wine, the pure palm-wine, is sweet;
It is like the bright spirits we sometimes meet—
The wine of the cocoa-nut tree;

For they tie up the embryo bud's soft wing,
From which the blossoms and nuts would spring;
And thus, forbidden to bless with bloom
Its native air, and with soft perfume,
The subtile spirit that struggles there
Distils an essence more rich and rare-
And instead of a blossom and fruitage birth,
The delicate palm-wine oozes forth.

Ah, thus to the child of genius, too,
The rose of beauty is oft denied ;
But all the richer, that high heart through,
The torrent of feeling pours its tide;
And purer and fonder, and far more true,
Is that passionate soul in its lonely pride.
Oh, the fresh, the free,

The cocoa-nut tree,

Is the tree of all trees for me!

The glowing sky of the Indian isles
Lovingly over the cocoa-nut smiles,
And the Indian maiden lies below,

Where its leaves their graceful shadow throw:
She weaves a wreath of the rosy shells

That

gem the beach where the cocoa dwells

She binds them into her long black hair,

;

And they blush in the braids like rosebuds there;
Her soft brown arm, and her graceful neck,
With those ocean-blooms she joys to deck.
Oh, wherever you see

The cocoa-nut tree,
There will a picture of beauty be!

Elizabeth Oakes-Smith.

THE BROOK.

66 WHITHER away, thou merry Brook,

Whither away so fast,

With dainty feet through the meadow green
And a smile as you hurry past?”

The Brook leaped on in idle mirth,
And dimpled with saucy glee;
The daisy kissed in lovingness,

And made with the willow free.

I heard its laugh adown the glen,
And over the rocky steep,

Away where the old tree's roots were bare
In the waters dark and deep;
The sunshine flashed upon its face,

And played with flickering leaf

Well pleased to dally in its path,
Though the tarrying were brief.

"Now stay thy feet, O restless one,
Where droops the spreading tree,
And let thy liquid voice reveal
Thy story unto me.”

The flashing pebbles lightly rang,

As the gushing music fell— The chiming music of the Brook,

From out the woody dell:

'My mountain home was bleak and high, A rugged spot and drear,

With searching wind and raging storm,
And moonlight cold and clear.

I longed for a greeting cheery as mine,
For a fond and answering look;

But none were in that solitude

To bless the little Brook.

"The blended hum of pleasant sounds Came up from the vale below,

And I wished that mine were a lowly lot,
To laugh, and sing as I go;
That gentle things, with loving eyes,
Along my path should glide,
And blossoms in their loveliness

Come nestling to my side.

"I leaped me down: my rainbow robe
Hung shivering to the sight,

And the thrill of freedom gave to me
New impulse of delight.

A joyous welcome the sunshine gave,
The bird and the swaying tree;
The spear-like grass and blossom start
With joy at sight of me.

"The swallow comes with its bit of clay
When the busy Spring is here,
And twittering bears the moistened gift
A nest on the eaves to rear;
The twinkling feet of flock and herd
Have trodden a path to me,

And the fox and the squirrel come to drink

In the shade of the alder-tree.

"The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot,

Comes hither with me to play,

And I feel the thrill of its lightsome heart
As he dashes the merry spray.
I turn the mill with answering glee,
As the merry spokes go round;
And the gray rock takes the echo up,
Rejoicing in the sound.

"The old man bathes his scattered locks,
And drops me a silent tear-
For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face
Look up from the waters clear.
Then I sing in his ear the very song
He heard in years gone by;
The old man's heart is glad again,
And a joy lights up his eye."
Enough, enough, thou homily Brook!
I'll treasure thy teachings well,
And I will yield a heartfelt tear
Thy crystal drops to swell;
Will bear, like thee, a kindly love
For the lowly things of earth,
Remembering still that high and pure
Is the home of the spirit's birth.

Anna Cora Mowatt (Ritchie).

TIME.

AY, rail not at Time, though a tyrant he be,

NAY

And say not he cometh, colossal in might,

Our beauty to ravish, put Pleasure to flight,

And pluck away friends, e'en as leaves from the tree;

And say not Love's torch, which like VESTA's should burn, The cold breath of Time soon to ashes will turn.

You call Time a robber? Nay, he is not so: While Beauty's fair temple he rudely despoils, The mind to enrich with its plunder he toils;

And, sowed in his furrows, doth wisdom not grow?