IN PRAISE OF THE WEYMOUTII PINE. 241 



glass darkly; and to hear overhead, not 

 plain words, but inarticulate murmurs. 



I am not to be understood as praising 

 the pine at the expense of other trees. All 

 things considered, no evergreen can be equal 

 to a summer - green, on which we see the 

 leaves budding, unfolding, ripening, and 

 falling, a "worlde whiche neweth everie 

 daie." What would winter be worth with- 

 out the naked branches of maples and elms, 

 beeches and oaks ? We speak of them sadly : 



" Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang." 



But the sadness is of a pleasing sort, that 

 could ill be spared by any who know the 

 pleasures of sentiment and sober reflection. 

 But though one tree differeth from another 

 tree in glory, we may surely rejoice in them 

 all. One ministers to our mood to-day, an- 

 other to-morrow. 



" I hate those trees that never lose their foliage ; 

 They seem to have no sympathy with Nature ; 

 Winter and summer are alike to them." 



So says Ternissa, in Landor's dialogue. I 

 know what she means. But I do not "hate " 

 an impassive, unchangeable temper, whether 

 in a tree or in a man. I have so little of 

 such a spirit myself that I am glad to see 



