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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 ye soothe the aching breast! 
For this I love ye—yea, that ye appear 
Instinct with human feeling ! not a tone 
Which the lips utter, mirthful or severe, 
But ye can make the thrilling sounds your own ; 
Devotion’s choral chant, — Grief’s dirge-like moan,— 
Triumph’s loud swell,—Affection’s gentle sigh, 
And those low murmurs breathing peace alone, 
Soft as a mother’s evening lullaby, 
When she would seal in sleep her infant’s drooping eye. 
One other strain ye have, a warning strain, 
Its burden this, “ Man as a leaf doth fade !” 
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. 
