And the Atlantic's never-ending moan
Are mine by heritage, I must have known
Life otherwhere in epochs long since fled;
For in my veins some Orient blood is red,
And through my thought are lotus blossoms blown.
I do remember ... it was just at dusk,
Near a walled garden at the river's turn,
(A thousand summers seem but yesterday!)
A Nubian girl, more sweet than Khoorja musk,
Came to the water-tank to fill her urn,
And with the urn she bore my heart away!

PERE ANTOINE'S DATE-PALM

Near the Levee, and not far from the old French Cathedral in the Place
d'Armes, at New Orleans, stands a fine date-palm, thirty feet in height,
spreading its broad leaves in the alien air as hardily as if its sinuous
roots were sucking strength from their native earth.

Sir Charles Lyell, in his 'Second Visit to the United States,' mentions
this exotic:--"The tree is seventy or eighty years old; for Pere
Antoine, a Roman Catholic priest, who died about twenty years ago, told
Mr. Bringier that he planted it himself, when he was young. In his will
he provided that they who succeeded to this lot of ground should forfeit
it if they cut down the palm."

Wishing to learn something of Pere Antoine's history, Sir Charles Lyell
made inquiries among the ancient Creole inhabitants of the faubourg.
That the old priest, in his last days, became very much emaciated, that
he walked about the streets like a mummy, that he gradually dried up,
and finally blew away, was the meagre and unsatisfactory result of the
tourist's investigations. This is all that is generally told of
Pere Antoine.

In the summer of 1861, while New Orleans was yet occupied by the
Confederate forces, I met at Alexandria, in Virginia, a lady from
Louisiana--Miss Blondeau by name--who gave me the substance of the
following legend touching Pere Antoine and his wonderful date-palm. If
it should appear tame to the reader, it will be because I am not habited
in a black ribbed-silk dress, with a strip of point-lace around my
throat, like Miss Blondeau; it will be because I lack her eyes and lips
and Southern music to tell it with.

When Pere Antoine was a very young man, he had a friend whom he loved as
he loved his life. Emile Jardin returned his passion, and the two, on
account of their friendship, became the marvel of the city where they
dwelt. One was never seen without the other; for they studied, walked,
ate, and s