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Soft eyes are seen no more,
That made spring-time in your heart ; Kindred and friends are gone before And
still fear to part ?
Though the way thro’ darkness bends; Our souls are strong to follow them,
Our own familiar friends!
It wav'd not thro' an Eastern sky,
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
There came an eve of festal hours
Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers :
Under the blossoms to and fro.
But one, a lone one, midst the throng,
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Of erested brow, and long black hair-
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,
Aye, to his ear that native tone
His mother's cabin home, that lay