Page:Records of Woman.pdf/280

272

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.