The Illustrated London Reading Book. Various

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      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!—