The gardens, that the miser had Left all untrimmed and bare, Were planted, pruned, and decked anew, And stored with all things rare. But chiefly did the lady love One glade within the wood, The shady glade, where broad and high, The noble Oak tree stood. Sad memories, yet sweet ones too, 'Twas there, beneath that tree, he spoke His last, last fond farewell! From thence she watched him ride away No marvel that sad lady loved And there they oft together came, The lady and the boy, For he to her was all on earth, Her one sole living joy. And long years after, when she slept Her warrior's tomb beside, When the boy had grown an aged man, That ancient wood he reverenced; Of the old tree within the glade, I know the spot—though strangely time Where once the forest's stillness lay, A large and busy peopled town But I remember when a child, I've sat within it many a time, Soon they built there a fine new street, With roar and riot,—even where That lady came to weep! Each passing year we note a change Louisa A. Twamley. There's no power In ancestry, to make the foolish wise, Or, like a pension, on the heart bestow Hence man's best riches must be gained—not given; Mrs. Hale. Some men are born to endure the toil and strife Its strength and ornament; or, hidden far They least repine who bear and suffer most: In still and stern endurance they sustain The ills whereof all weaker minds complain; And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast. MacKellar. YEW....Sorrow. The Yew is among all nations an emblem of sorrow. Its bare trunk, and dark foliage, with which its fruit, looking like drops of blood, stands in harsh contrast, excite in us a sort of aversion. Persons who sleep under a Yew tree are liable to be seized with dizziness, heaviness, and violent headache. Its juice is poisonous, and the tree exhausts the soil which supports it, and destroys all other plants which spring up beneath it. The Yew was planted in old English burying-grounds, and its wood was commonly employed for making bows and arrows before the introduction of fire-arms. Greeks, impressed with the melancholy aspect of this tree, invented the fable of the unhappy Smilax; who, seeing that her love was rejected by young Crocus, was transformed into a Yew. Who that hath ever been, Could bear to be no more? Yet who would tread again the scene He trod through life before? The Montgomery. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast; Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Shakspeare. And sorrowing friends stood round the bed 'Twas Ellen;—there the suffering saint, In peace and hope was dying. A silence deep as death was there When her true soul departed; And grace and mercy crowned her end Who lived the broken-hearted. MacKellar. When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping, When the bloom of young feeling is dying, And the heart throbs with passion's fierce strife When our sad days are wasted in sighing, Who then can find sweetness in life? Mrs. Embury. He is dead. Those words toll on the ear, The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims. For he was lovely, and leaves a hollow In our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose. But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us, Making that refresh which seemed to blast! C. Watson. |