220 THE ENCHANTED PE ANTS. 
Ah, nature ! why, when all is gay, 
Or resting from the toils of day. 
Why is my waking soul the shrine 
Of sense so exquisitely fine ? 
If hut a sunbeam strikes too warm, 
How faint my undulating form ! 
The most dispirited of trees. 
If hollow sounds the evening breeze. 
When cloudy yon blue vault appears. 
Instant I droop, dissolved in tears ; 
If but a Poplar frowns in scorn, 
I sorrow that I e’er was born.” 
While thus she mourned, she sobbed aloud. 
And to the stream her branches bowed ; 
I gazed ; and still she wept and sighed. 
Yet seemed to feel a secret pride. 
An Alder, by her plaints awoke. 
Thus in reproachful accents spoke, 
“ Why, W illow, why these vigils keep, 
And break the sacred hour of sleep ? 
