FROM NADSON.

Pity the stately cypress trees; How freshly green they spring! Ah! why amidst their branches, child, Have you put up your swing? Break not a single fragrant bough. Oh, take thy swing away To heights where thick acacias bloom; Mid dusty olives play! Thence you can see the Ocean, And, as your swing ascends, Through greening boughs a sunny glimpse The sea in laughter sends Of white sails in the distance dim, Of white gulls far away, Of white flakes foaming on the sands, A fringe of snowy spray.