The Blossoming of the Solitary Date-tree lyrics

1
Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain peaks are
the Thrones of Frost, through the absence of objects to reflect
the rays. 'What no one with us shares, seems scarce our own.'
The presence of a one,

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspThe best belov'd, who loveth me the best,

is for the heart, what the supporting air from within is for the
hollow globe with its suspended car. Deprive it of this, and
all without, that would have buoyed it aloft even to the seat
of the gods, becomes a burthen and crushes it into flatness.

2
The finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely, and the
fairer and lovelier the object presented to the sense; the more
exquisite the individual's capacity of joy, and the more ample
his means and opportunities of enjoyment, the more heavily
will he feel the ache of solitariness, the more unsubstantial
becomes the feast spread around him. What matters it,
whether in fact the viands and the ministering graces are
shadowy or real, to him who has not hand to grasp nor arms
to embrace them?

3
       &nbspImagination; honourable aims;
       &nbspFree commune with the choir that cannot die;
       &nbspScience and song; delight in little things,
       &nbspThe buoyant child surviving in the man;
       &nbspFields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky,
       &nbspWith all their voices—O dare I accuse
       &nbspMy earthly lot as guilty of my spleen,
       &nbspOr call my destiny n*ggard! O no! no!
       &nbspIt is her largeness, and her overflow,
       &nbspWhich being incomplete, disquieteth me so!

4
       &nbspFor never touch of gladness stirs my heart,
       &nbspBut tim'rously beginning to rejoice
       &nbspLike a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start
       &nbspIn lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice.
       &nbspBelovéd! 'tis not thine; thou art not there!
       &nbspThen melts the bubble into idle air,
       &nbspAnd wishing without hope I restlessly despair.

5
       &nbspThe mother with anticipated glee
       &nbspSmiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair
       &nbspAnd flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee,
       &nbspLooks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare
       &nbspTo mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight
       &nbspShe hears her own voice with a new delight;
       &nbspAnd if the babe perchance should lisp the notes aright,

6
       &nbspThen is she tenfold gladder than before!
       &nbspBut should disease or chance the darling take,
       &nbspWhat then avail those songs, which sweet of yore
       &nbspWere only sweet for their sweet echo's sake?
       &nbspDear maid! no prattler at a mother's knee
       &nbspWas e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee:
       &nbspWhy was I made for Love and Love denied to me?