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them without injury. Southey gives countenance to 
this opinion when, mourning over the full of some trees, 
he says, 
“ If he had play'd about here when a child 
In that fore-court, and ate the yew berries, 
And sate in the porch threading the jessamine flowers 
Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart 
To mar them thus.” 
The leaves, however, as we have already staled, are 
by common consent deemed poisonous; and it is pro¬ 
bably this deadly quality, together with its being usually 
planted in churchyards, that has led Shakspeare to 
make “ slips of yew” one of the horrible ingredients 
in his witches’ caldron. 
The yew is a tree of astonishing longevity ; it seems 
a thing 
“ Produced too slowly ever to decay.” 
So that when we see an aged yew, we may fancy it 
fraught with the history and legends of centuries. 
Like the oak it has obtained much notice from writers 
on sylvan scenery; and many individuals, celebrated 
for age, bulk, and legendary renown, are before the 
