THE CHESNUT. 83 



sand years have rolled over its yet green head. 

 How is it possible, bearing this reflexion in our 

 minds, to look upon its gigantic trunk, and widely- 

 spreading arms, without feelings of reverence ! How 

 many, not merely generations of men, but whole 

 nations, have been swept from the face of the earth, 

 whilst, winter after winter, it has defied the howling 

 blasts with its bare branches, and spring after spring 

 put forth its leaves again, a grateful shelter from the 

 summer suns ! Its tranquil existence, unlike that 

 of the human race, stained by no guilt, chequered 

 by no vicissitudes, is thus perpetually renewing 

 itself; and, if we judge from the luxuriance of its 

 foliage, and the vigour of the branches which en- 

 circle the parent stem in wild profusion, may be 

 prolonged for as many more centuries as it has 

 already stood. Nor is it solitary in its old age. Its 

 progeny rises around it, and its venerable roots are 

 nearly hidden by the lighter saplings and bushes 

 that have sought the protection of its boughs, making 

 it appear a grove in itself a fit residence for some 

 sylvan deity, and realising Cowley's animated 

 apostrophe : 



" Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! 



Hail, ye plebeian underwood, 



Where the poetic birds rejoice, 

 And for their quiet nests and plenteous food 



Pay with their grateful voice. 



