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Felicia Dorothea Hemans - The Palm-TreeFelicia Dorothea Hemans - The Palm-Tree
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It wav`d not thro` 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 exil`d Palm-tree grew Midst foliage of no kindred hue; Thro` 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 silvery 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 flowering branches hung, On sparks of dew soft colour flung, And bright forms glanc`d–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, mov`d his plumes, Glittering athwart the leafy glooms: He pass`d the pale green olives by, Nor won the chestnut 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 cocoas fring`d the bay; The dashing of his brethren`s oar, The conch-note heard along the shore;– All thro` his wakening bosom swept: He clasp`d his country`s Tree and wept! Oh! scorn him not!–the strength, whereby The patriot girds himself to die, Th` unconquerable power, which fills The freeman battling on his hills,– These have one fountain deep and clear– The same whence gush`d that child-like tear!
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