Years rolled on, but the last one sped- 'Tis past; 'tis past; but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow; 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And mem'ry flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek: But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm chair. THE SPICE-TREE. JOHN STERLING. The spice-tree lives in the garden green; And a fair bird sits the boughs between, No greener garden e'er was known Within the bounds of an earthly king; No lovelier skies have ever shone Than those that illumine its constant spring. That coil-bound stem has branches three; The root stands fast in the rocks below. In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam. The fair white bird of flaming crest, But sings the lament that he framed of old: "O princess bright! how long the night Since thou art sunk in the waters clear! "The waters play, and the flowers are gay, I would that all could fade and fall, “O, many a year, so wakeful and drear, I have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for thee! : But there comes no breath from the chambers of death, While the lifeless fount gushes under the tree." The skies grow dark, and they glare with red; The waves of the fount in a black pool spread; Down springs the bird with a long shrill cry, And the face of the pool, as he falls from high But sudden again upswells the fount; Finer and finer the watery mound And bear to the stars the fountain's tale And swift the eddying rainbow screen |