THE ISLAND.
149
Literary Gazette 13th December 1823, Page 793-794
It was a place of birds and flowers,
Of green leaves and sunshine:
I do hope I shall find no change,
Sweet Isle! in aught of thine.
I'll seek again where the pink boughs
Of the accacia wave,—
My cradle was beneath their shade,
And so shall be my grave.
My spirit could not pass away
In yon great city's air,
Even my last sigh would be false,
For all things are false there.
I have let fall my red rose wreath,
Scattered upon the deep,—
The flowers I had such joy to cull,
I wished so much to keep.
There, they are floating far away,
Over the starlit sea;
Is it not thus pleasures and hopes
Have pass'd away from me?
Well, let them pass; I have a home
Where pink accacias wave,
And sweetly will it guard my sleep
Within the quiet grave!
‘Twas even so: they made the Maiden's grave
Beneath the lone accacia, which became
A shrine by lovers sought to breathe their vows;
And a pale lily or a violet
Gathered from off that tomb, was a love-gift
Beyond all prize, and one that every youth
Offered his mistress, when a blush first owned
She loved him. L. E. L.
