XV 
“ Hail, ye patrician trees! ” I love ye well, 
Wliate’er your aspect and whate’er your mood; 
Alike when Spring with her resistless spell 
First on your boughs unfolds the tender bud, 
As when by Summer’s shower and sunshine woo’d 
In “ leafy luxury” ye stand array’d; 
Nor less when mournful Autumn has imbued 
With her own sadness bower and forest glade, 
Or when ’neath Winter’s blight your latest glories fade. 
I love ye when in congregated pride 
The forest’s shadowy vastness ye assume, 
And when in softer beauty, side by side, 
To hill and vale ye lend your grateful gloom. 
I love ye when with consecrated bloom 
The village church ye reverently embower; 
Nor scarcely less when by the peasant’s home. 
Or on the green, in single pomp ye-tower, 
As if ye loved to grace the dwellings of the poor. 
Nor owns the eye alone your potent spell, 
The soul of music lingers ’mid your boughs; 
Like harp e’er tuned, ’t is yours to sink or swell 
Responsive to each varying blast which blows. 
