408 SYLVAN SKETCHES. 



" There is a yew tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 

 Which to this day stands single in the midst 

 Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore, 

 Not loth to furnish weapons in the hands 

 Of Umfraville or Percy, ere they marched 

 To Scotland's heaths, or those that crossed the sea 

 And drew their sounding bows at Azincour ; 

 Perhaps at earlier Cressy, or Poictiers. 

 Of vast circumference, and gloom profound, 

 This solitary tree ! a living thing 

 Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 

 Of form and aspect too magnificent 

 To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 

 Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale, 

 Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 

 Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a growth 

 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine, 

 Upcoiling, and inveterately convolved : 

 Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks 

 That threaten the profane ; a pillared shade, 

 Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, 

 By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 

 Perennially ; beneath whose sable roof 

 Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked 

 With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes 

 May meet at noon-tide : Fear, and trembling hope, 

 Silence and foresight death the skeleton, 

 And time the shadow, there to celebrate, 

 As in a natural temple, scattered o'er 

 With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 

 United worship ; or in mute repose 

 To lie, and listen to the mountain-flood 

 Murmuring from Gleramara's inmost caves." 



We cannot do better than conclude with this fine pas- 

 sage from one of the finest poets of our time. 



THE END. 



Printed by T. Davison, Lombard-street, Whitefriars, London. 



