"The morning watch was coine; the vessel lay
Iler course, and gently made her liquid way;
The cloven billow flashed from off her prow
In furrows formed, by that majestic plough.
'Huzza for Otaheite t' was the cry.
The gentle island and the genial soil,
The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil,
The courteous manners, but from nature caught,
The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought.
The soil where every cottage showed a home,
The sea-spread net, the lightly launched canoe,
Which stemmed the studded archipelago
O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry Isles.
And sweetly now, those untaught melodies
Broke the luxurious silence of the skies,
The sweet siesta of a summer day,
The tropic afternoon of Toobonai,
When every flower was bloom, and air was balm,
And the lirst breath began to stir the i«ilm."
— The Island: Lori> Byron.