He pass’d the pale-green olives by,
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye;
But when to that sole palm he came,
Then shot a rapture through his frame!
To him, to him its rustling spoke—
The silence of his soul it broke!
It whisper’d of his own bright isle,
That lit the ocean with a smile;
Ay, to his ear that native tone
Had something of the sea-wave’s moan?