A TROPICAL SCRAP

FRONTING the casa, where I swing
My hammock in this sultry clime,
There comes the low, unceasing chime
Of Southern folk, who dance and sing.

I hear strange cries of bird and beast,
I hear faint chimes from Ma-ca-pa;
I see faint lights that gleam afar,
I watch the moon rise in the east;

The tropic moon, that northern eyes
May never see so near, or bright,
And tropic fire-flies, whose strange light,
Through the dark hours will sink and rise.

Marajo, North Brazil, Sept. 20, 1870