The Olive Tree

The palm--the vine--the cedar--each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by;
And each quick glistening of the laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o’er fancy’s eye.
But thou, pale Olive! in thy branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old
Might e’er enshrine: I could not hear the sigh
To the wind’s faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves’ dim, silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray’d--
When pale stars look’d upon his fainting head,
And angels, ministering in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.