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The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit, The bread-tree which, without the ploughshare, yields The unreap'd harvest of unfurrowed fields. These, with the luxuries of seas and woods, The airy joys of social solitudes, Tamed each rude wanderer. Saturday, December 2nd.
For Adoration ripening canes And cocoa's purest milk detains The westering pilgrim's staff; Where rain in, clasping boughs inclos'd, And vines with oranges dispos'd, Embower the social laugh. For Adoration, beyond match, The scholar bulfinch aims to catch The soft flute's ivory touch; And, careless on the hazle spray, The daring redbreast keeps at bay The damsel's greedy clutch.
Every contrast was there of light and dark, short and tall, thick and thin; of age and death with lusty youth clinging around it; of the cocoa's drooping frond and the aspiring arm of bombax, the silk-cotton-tree, which rains brown gossamer when the wind blows; of the sloth-tree with its topping tuft, and the tangled mantle of the calamus or rattan, a palm like a bamboo-cane.
The place stood in the midst of a grove of verdure of the most glorious golden-green, rich with the great crimson, coral-like blossoms of what is there called madre del cacao the cocoa's mother tall, regularly planted trees, cultivated for the protection and shade they give to the plants beneath, great bananas loaded with fruit, bright green coffee bushes, and the cocoa with its pods, green, yellow, blood-red, and purple.
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