85 



STILL the same, ever the same, this outward face of 



things ! 

 Time but toucheth it gently little the change it 



brings. 

 Here, where we sat together, spreadeth' the self-same 



tree, 

 Curved and matted the branches, just as they used to 



be. 



Even the rich-toned lichen keepeth its place and form, 

 Mellowing the old grey oak-bark, tinting it sunset- 

 warm. 

 Grandly the dome of beech-trees archeth the old wood 



o'er; 

 Vividly fretteth the sorrel the deep brown beech-leaf 



floor. 



Even the delicate flowers cling to the same old spot ; 

 Meadow-sweet decks the river, and blue forget-me-not. 

 Close to the feathery larch -tree the woodbine clingeth 



still ; 

 Sweet is the rose in the valley, golden the gorse on 



the hill. 



Cruel, cruel Nature ! tear off the treacherous veil ! 

 Away with the smile of mockery ! tell us a truer tale ! 

 Shatter the painful image of changeless trees and 



stones ; 

 Thou art a whited sepulchre, all full of mouldering 



bones ! 



But the solemn voice of Nature rose on the wind and 



said : 

 ' Why wilt thou still be seeking the living amidst the 



dead?' 



D 2 



