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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