JASMINE. 
163 
I ask not, while I near thee dwell ; 
Arabia’s spice or Syria’s rose ; 
Thy bright festoons more freshly smell, 
Thy virgin white more freshly glows.’ 
My wild and winsome jasmine-tree, 
That climbest up the dark-grey wall, 
Thy tiny flowerets seem in glee, 
Like silver spray-drops down to fall: 
Say, did they from their leaves thus peep, 
When mailed moss-troopers rode the hill ? 
When helmed wardens paced the keep, 
And bugles blew for Belted Will ? 
My free and feathery jasmine-tree, 
Within the fragrance of thy breath, 
Yon dungeon grated to its key, 
And the chained captive pined for death 
On Border fray, on feudal crime, 
I dream not while I gaze on thee ; 
The chieftains of that stem old time’ 
Could ne er have loved a jasmine-tree. 
JASMINE. 
MOORE. 
The image of Love, that nightly flies 
To visit the bashful maid, 
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs 
Its soul like her in the shade. 
The dieam of a future happier hour 
That alights on misery’s brow, 
Springs out of the silvery almond flower 
That blooms on a leafless bough. 
