LATER YEARS OF A PLANT. 221 



watch by the Armenian's grave. Some nations love to 

 weep with the weeping birch, that most beautiful of forest 

 trees, the lady of the woods, with "boughs so pendulous 

 and fair," or with the willow of Babylon, on whose branches 

 the captive Israelites hung up their harps. They love to 

 look upon their long, thin leaves and branches, as they 

 hang languidly down to the ground, or trail listlessly on 

 the dark waters, now waving full of sadness in the sigh- 

 ing breeze, and now floating in abandoned despair on the 

 silent waves. Their whole dishevelled and disheartened 

 aspect seems to deplore some great misfortune, and we 

 can fancy poor Desdemona singing how 



"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, 



Sing all a green willow, 



Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, 

 The fresh streams ran by her and murmured her moans, 

 Her salt tears fell from her and softened the stones, 



Sing all a green willow must be my garland," 



for Desdemona also had a song of a willow, and she died 

 singing the song of the willow. 



Other nations again love not trees that seem to unite 

 in sorrow with the earth, and to carry our regrets to the 

 dust, but rather cherish such as seem to lift up our hearts 

 in their branches, and to raise our hopes to heaven. Such 

 are the mountain cypress, the lofty poplar and the sombre 

 pine of the north. The latter, especially, with their dark 

 but evergreen foliage, their balsamic fragrance, the strange 

 sad sighs that are ever heard in their long boughs, and 

 their lofty crowns, reaching to the very clouds, which sue- 



