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But did none love the Jasmine tree?
Yes;—Beauty, in her turret bower,
Cherished its gentle purity,
And culled the fair and fragrant flower.
It nestled 'midst her raven hair,
It wreathed around her lofty brow,
And, sooth, no easy task it were
To say which wore the purer snow.
The free and sportive Jasmine-tree!
O'er the lone captive's darksome cell,
How many a tale of liberty
Could'st thou to his sad spirit tell!
Each slender tendril floating there,
Laughing in sunshine, nursed by showers,
And gemming the perfumed air
With winged wreaths of starry flowers.
The captive saw the Jasmine-tree,
Whose slight and fragile branches crept
Through the dim loop-hole stealthily—
He sadly gazed on them, and wept;
Each wandering breeze their light leaves stirred,
They looked up to the glorious sky,
And, poised upon them, many a bird
Trilled forth its free wild melody.
