It was not fann’d by southern breeze
In some green isle of Indian seas;
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O’er stream of Afric, lone and deep.
But fair the exiled palm-tree grew
Midst foliage of no kindred hue;
Through the laburnum’s dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould,
And Europe’s violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.