Page:Records of Woman.pdf/281

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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!