SADNESS. 
249 
Or flung upon the stream, 
Curl’d like a fairy boat; 
As through the changes of a dream. 
To the world’s end to float. 
Who that hath ever been, 
Could bear to be no more ? 
Yet who would tread again the scene 
He trod through life before ? 
On, with intense desire, 
Man’s spirit will move on : 
It seems to die, yet, like Heav’n’s lire, 
It is not quenched but gone. 
The sun now sheds on the foliage a pale 
yellow hue, and the poplar is tinged with dis¬ 
coloured gold, whilst the acacia folds up its 
bright foliage, which the sun’s rays will ex¬ 
pand no more. The birch tree waves its long 
branches, already stripped of ornament; and 
the fir, which preserves its green pyramids, 
balances them proudly in the air. The oak 
is immoveable — it resists the efforts of the 
wind to strip its stately head ; and the king of 
the forest refuses to shed its leaves until the 
ensuing spring. We are told that all these 
trees are moved by different passions; one 
bows profoundly as if it wished to render ho¬ 
mage to him whom the tempest cannot move; 
another seems desirous of embracing its com¬ 
panion, the support of its weakness; and while 
they mingle their branches together, a third 
seems universally agitated as though it were 
