89 
And e’er since then, that tree so sadly waving 
By the still gliding stream, or plashy spring, 
Whether suns brighten or dark storms are raving, 
“ Seems link’d to sorrow like a holy thing;” 
And still it offers to the broken-hearted 
The friendly covert of its drooping bough. 
O well it were, meek tree, when joy’s departed, 
If man like thee could bend him to the blow ! 
•M 
