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VI.
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!
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, ev'n in death, would own.
