SONNET.—BAUGMAREE.

     
     
          A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
      But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
      Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen;
    The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
    Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound,
      And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
      And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
    Red,—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.
    But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
      Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
    Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
      Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
        Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
        On a primeval Eden, in amaze.