SONNETS.
225
XI.
THE OLIVE TREE.
The Palm—the Vine—the Cedar—each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by,
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye.
But thou, pale Olive!—in thy branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old
Might e'er enshrine:—I could not hear thee sigh
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer prayed—
When pale stars looked upon his fainting head,
And angels, minist'ring in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.
