In the deep woods of Mexico, Where screams the "painted paraquet," And mocking-birds flit to and fro, With borrowed notes they half forget; Where brilliant flowers and poisonous vines Are mingled in a firm embrace, And the same gaudy plant entwines Some reptile of a poisonous race; Where spreads the _Itos'_ icy shade, Benumbing, even in summer's heat, The thoughtless traveler who hath laid Himself to noonday slumbers sweet;-- Where skulks unseen the beast of prey-- The native robber glares and hides,-- And treacherous death keeps watch alway On him who flies, or he who bides. In these deep tropic woods there grows A tree, whose tall and silvery bole Above the dusky forest shows, As shining as a saintly soul Among the souls of sinful men;-- Lifting its milk-white flowers to heaven, And breathing incense out, as when The passing saints of earth are shriven. The skulking robber drops his eyes, And signs himself with holy cross, If, far between him and the skies, He sees its pearly blossoms toss. The wanderer halts to gaze upon The lovely vision, far or near, And smiles and sighs to think of one He wishes for the moment here. The Mexic native fears not fang Of poisonous serpent, vine, nor bee, If he may soothe the baleful pang With juices of this "holy tree." How do we all, in life's wild ways, Which oft we traverse lost and lone, Need that which heavenward draws the gaze, Some _Palo Santo_ of our own! A SUMMER DAY. Fade not, sweet day! Another hour like this-- So full of tranquil bliss-- May never come my way, I walk in paths so shadowed and so cold: But stay thou, darling hour, Nor stint thy gracious power To smile away the clouds that me enfold: Oh stay! when thou art gone, I shall be lost and lone. Lost, lone, and sad; And troubled more and more, By the dark ways, and sore, In which my feet are led;-- Alas, my heart, it was not always so! Therefore, O happy day, Haste not to fade away, Nor let pale night chill all thy tender glow-- Thy rosy mists, that steep The violet hills in sleep-- Thy airs of gold, That over all the plain, And fields of ripened grain, A shimmering glory hold,-- The soft fatigue-dress of the drowsy sun; Dreaming, as one who goes To peace, and sweet repose, After a battle hardly fought, and won: Even so, my heart, to-day, Dream all thy fears away.