THE ANEMONE. 
499 
Shout, shout to thy brothers, the forests. I said, 
And lead out the trees with a soldierly tread; 
Thou art armed to the head, and hast many a plume,— 
So marshal the trees and avert their sad doom; 
Enroll all their squadrons and lead out the van, 
And turn the swift axe on your murderer—man! 
But ah, thus I said evermore.—ah, the trees, 
Though they wail in the tempest and sing in the breeze 
Have never a soul, and are rooted in earth ! 
They live and they die where they spring into birth; 
The stories of Dryads are only a dream, 
And trees are no more than they outwardly seem. 
®|.e Jincmone. 
Hartley Coleridge. 
H 0 would have thought a thing so slight, 
So frail a birth of warmth and light. 
A thing as weak as fear or shame, 
Bearing thy weakness in thy name— 
Who would have thought of seeing thee, 
Thou delicate Anemone ! 
What power has given thee to outlast 
The pelting rain, the driving blast— 
