272 THE ELM-TREES.
But many a column of its trust
Lay broken in the grave. The ancient and the white-hair'd men,
Whose wisdom was its stay, For them I ask VI, and Echo's voice
Made answer, " Where are they ? "
I sought the thrifty matron,
Whose busy wheel was heard When the early beams of morning
Awoke the chirping bird. Strange faces from her window look'd,
Strange voices fill'd her cot ; And, 'neath the very vine she train 'd,
Her memory was forgot.
I left a youthful mother,
Her children round her knee, Those babes had risen into men,
And coldly look'd on me ; But she, with all her bloom and grace,
Did in the church-yard lie, While still those changeless elms upbore
Their kingly canopy.
Though we, who 'neath their lofty screen, Pursued our childish play,
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