THE PALM-TREE.*

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.

*This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of "Les Jardins."

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 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!

THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP.

SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY'S.

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-