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Plant of lost Eden, from the sod
Of sinful earth unriven,
Dropped down to us from heaven ! This tangled waste of mound and stone
Is holy for thy sake;
Breathes out from fern and brake.
And while ancestral pride shall twine
The Gascon's tomb with flowers, Fall sweetly here, O song of mine,
With summer's bloom and showers !
And let the lines that severed seem
Unite again in thee,
Are mingled in one sea !
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT C. WATERSTON, OF BOSTON.
I GIVE thee joy !-I know to thee
The dearest spot on earth must be Where sleeps thy loved one by the summer sea;
Where, near her sweetest poet's tomb,
The land of Virgil gave thee room
I know that when the sky shut down
Behind thee on the gleaming town, On Baiæ's baths and Posilippo's crown;
And, through thy tears, the mocking day
Burned Ischia's mountain lines away, And Capri melted in its sunny bay,—
Through thy great farewell sorrow shot
The sharp pang of a bitter thought
Thou knewest not the land was blest
In giving thy beloved rest,
That every sweet and saintly grave
Was freedom's prophecy, and gave The pledge of Heaven to sanctify and save.