Lys.
417
a foaming stream : the mighty propeller is playing ! . . . All the blue harbor swings slowly round ;—and the green limbs of the land are pushed out further on the left, shrink back upon the right ;—and the mountains are moving their shoulders. And then the many-tinted façades,—and the tamarinds of the Place Bertin,—and the light-house,—and the long wharves with their throng of turbaned women,—and the cathedral towers,—and the
B A S S E - T E R R E , ST.
KITï'S.
fair palms, — and the statues of the hills, — all veer, change place, and begin to float away . . . steadily, very swiftly. Farewell, fair city,—sun-kissed city,—many-fountained city !—dear yellow-glimmering streets,—white pavements learned by heart, — and faces ever looked for,—-and voices ever loved ! Farewell, white towers with your golden-throated bells! — farewell, green steeps, bathed in the light of summer everlasting !—craters with your coronets of forest !—bright mountain paths upwinding 'neath pomp of fern and angelin and feathery bamboo ! —and gracious palms that drowse above the dead !