XVI 
Let but the storm your slumbering might arouse, 
Then, sylvan minstrels, is your power confess’d; 
Anon, when Eve, with breath “ that shuts the rose” 
Just stirs your leaves with motion that seems rest, 
Oh! with what low sweet notes ve soothe the aching breast 
Its burden this, “ Man as a leaf doth tade !’’ 
Oh ! happy he who hears it not in vain, 
He to whose chasten’d fancy woodland glade, 
And far-spread forest with its depth of shade, 
Become a temple; to whom flower and tree 
The ministers of holy truths are made, 
Reminding him, though passing frail he be, 
His glorious, awful dower is immortality. 
