"Dear, the black man holds his gifts Of music and of song, The gold that kindly nature sifts Among his sands of wrong, The power to make his toiling days And poor home comforts please; The quaint relief of mirth that plays With sorrow's minor keys." For they sang among others the identical words of the poet's expressive song, "Ole massa on he trabbels gone, He leaf de land behind: De Lord's breff blow him furder on, Like corn-shuck in de wind: We own de hoe, we own de plow, We own de hans dat hold, We sell de pig, we sell de cow, But nebber chile be sold. De norf wind tell it to de pines, De wild-duck to de sea, We tink it when de church-bell ring, We dream it in de dream, De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when he scream, De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice and corn; Nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driber blow his horn." And so all too quickly passed that ideal night, without thought of sleep, till the rising sun shot his radiant beams over the great river, when we steamed slowly up to the long pier, and walked under an arch of stately palms to our host's beautiful home, embowered in orange trees and luxuriant trumpet creepers in this summer land of perpetual bloom. Close by the Count's residence was a lake of sulphur water, gushing from deep down in the earth. Into this we plunged and swam until we seemed to be born again into immortal youth, then on the broad piazza we enjoyed a feast which would have delighted Jupiter and all his gods, every course of which was taken from the adjoining trees, grounds and waters. We then inspected the great plantation, where was found growing in profusion, everything essential to the wants of the most fastidious of mortals, while the surrounding woods and river teemed with a great variety of fish and game. I roam as in a waking dream The garden of the Hesperides, And see the golden fruitage gleam Amid the stately orange-trees. Unfading green is on the hill, The vales are decked with countless flowers, While hums the bee, the song birds trill Sweet music through the sunny hours. The moss is waving in the gale From live oak, hickory, and pine, And draping like a bridal-veil The beauteous yellow jessamine. Through countless vistas in the wood I see the windows of the morn Ope to the world a glowing flood Of glory when the day is born. And when, with robes of Tyrian dye, The evening comes when day is done, I see around the radiant sky A hundred sunsets blent in one. We parted from our genial entertainer with much reluctance when the superintendent of the railroad claimed us as his guests, and with him, we inspected the famous orange groves along his line, resting on Sunday at a palatial hotel where the St. John's River broadens into the great Lake Munroe.