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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 colours 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 erested 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!

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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!



THOU sleepest--but when wilt thou wake, fair child?— When the fawn awakes in the forest wild?

When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn? When the first rich breath of the rose is born ?——

Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies
Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes,
Mournful, tho' sweet, is thy rest to see-
When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark

On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark

Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet

The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love with sad kisses, unfelt, hath press'd

Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast;

And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one!--that thou shouldst die,

And life be left to the butterfly !*

Thou'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the


Oh! for the world where thy home is now!
How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here,
How should e'en joy but a trembler be,

Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

*A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the monu


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