———
What sacred reminiscences dost thou
Awake within the breast, O olive-tree!
First did the silver-pinioned dove from thee
Pluck the sweet “Peace-branch”—it an olive-bough.
Fair evergreen! thoughts pure, devout, sublime,
Thou callest up, reminding us of Him,
The Man of Sorrows—Lord of Cherubim—
Who, erewhile, did, in distant Orient clime,
’Neath thy dark, solemn shade, once weep and pray