George W. Patten

THERE’S a bright sunny spot where the cinnamon trees

Shed their richest perfumes to the soft wooing breeze;

Where the rose is as sweet and as bright is the sky,

As the balm of thy breath and the glance of thine eye.

And clouds pass as soon o’er that beautiful Isle,

As the tear on thy cheek disappears at thy smile.

Come! haste thee, fair Irene, oh! haste thee with me,

To that far distant land in the Ægean sea.

Light breezes are swelling the gossamer sail,

Of my love-freighted bark for the evergreen vale;

And loudly the night bird is chanting her lay,

To rouse thee from slumber—away and away—

We ’ll land at the groves and the wild flowers there,

I ’ll twine in a wreath for thy soft flaxen hair;

And we ’ll roam like the antelope, reckless and free,

O’er that bright sunny Isle in the Ægean sea.

Soft music is there—for the mermaiden’s shell,

Is often heard winding through mountain and dell;

And the song of the sea spirits steals from the shore,

With the low sullen sound of the waves’ distant roar.

And the tones of thy voice—oh! how sweetly they ’ll blend,

With the strains which the harps of the Ocean Nymphs send;

While I list to the notes as they float on the lea,

Of that far distant land in the Ægean sea.

Far—far ’mid its bowers sequester’d and lone,

Young Love hath erected a jessamine throne;

And sworn with an oath which no mortal may say,

That none but the fairest its sceptre shall sway.

Then haste thee, fair Irene, oh! haste thee tonight,

While the stars are yet pale, and the moon is yet bright,

For, love, he hath destined that sceptre for thee

In that bright sunny Isle of the Ægean sea.