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O gentle story of the Indian Isle! I loved thee in my lonely childhood well On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell And dying cadence lent a deeper spell Unto thine ocean-pictures. 'Midst thy palms And strange bright birds, my fancy joyed to dwell, And watch the southern cross thro' midnight calms, And track the spicy woods.—Yet more I blessed Thy vision of sweet love; kind, trustful, true, Lighting the citron groves—a heavenly guest, With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. Even then my young heart wept o'er the world’s power, To reach and blight that holiest Eden-flower.