THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 57 
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy 
mirth. 
Their light stems thrill to the wild wood 
strains. 
And Youth is abroad in my green domains. 
—Mrs. Hemans. 
THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 
Oh ! bring me one sweet Orange-bough, 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow; 
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest. 
And bind it, Mother ! on my breast 1 
Go seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odours I must breathe no more. 
The grove where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 
Oh ! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 
And wild farewell, are lingering there. 
Each leaf’s light-whisper hath a tone, 
My faint heart, even in death, would own. 
Then hear me thence one bough, to shed 
Life’s parting sweeting round my head. 
