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Yet in this deep tranquillity, 
When e’en the thistle’s down is still, 
Trembles yon towering aspen tree, 
Like one whose bygone deeds of ill, 
At hush of night, before him sweep, 
To scare his dreams and “ murder sleep.” 
Far olf in Highland wilds ’tis said, 
(But truth now laughs at fancy’s lore) 
That of this tree the cross was made 
Which erst the Lord of Glory bore, 
And of that deed its leaves confess 
E’er since a troubled consciousness. 
We boast of clearer light; but say, 
Hath Science, in her lofty pride, 
For every legend swept away 
Some better, holier truth supplied ? 
What hath she to die wanderer given 
To help him on his road to heaven ? 
Say, who hath gazed upon this tree 
With that strange legend in his mind, 
But inward turn’d his eye to see 
If answering feeling he could find,— 
f :3 
