| | It waved not through an Eastern sky, Beside a fount of Araby; It was not fann'd by Southern breeze In some green isle of Indian seas; Nor did its graceful shadow sleep O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew, 'Midst foliage of no kindred hue: Through the laburnum's dropping gold Rose the light shaft of Orient mould; And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. Strange look'd it there!--the willow stream'd Where silv'ry waters near it gleam'd; The lime-bough lured the honey-bee To murmur by the Desert's tree, And showers of snowy roses made A lustre in its fan-like shade. There came an eve of festal hours— Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers; Lamps, that from flow'ring branches hung, On sparks of dew soft colours flung; And bright forms glanced—a fairy show, Under the blossoms to and fro. But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng, Seem'd reckless all of dance or song: He was a youth of dusky mien, Whereon the Indian sun had been; Of crested brow, and long black hair— A stranger, like the Palm-tree, there. And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, Glittering athwart the leafy glooms: He pass'd the pale green olives by, Nor won the chesnut flowers his eye; But when to that sole Palm he came, Then shot a rapture through his frame. To him, to him its rustling spoke; The silence of his soul it broke. It whisper'd of his own bright isle, That lit the ocean with a smile. Aye to his ear that native tone Had something of the sea-wave's moan. His mother's cabin-home, that lay Where feathery cocoos fringe the bay; The dashing of his brethren's oar, The conch-note heard along the shore— All through his wak'ning bosom swept: He clasp'd his country's tree, and wept. Oh! scorn him not. The strength whereby The patriot girds himself to die; The unconquerable power which fills The foeman battling on his hills: These have one fountain deep and clear, The same whence gush'd that child-like tear!— Mrs. Hemans. |
