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That Sycamore, which annually holds
Within its shade, as in a stately tent
On all sides open to the fanning breeze,
A grave assemblage, seated while they shear
The fleece-incumbered flock;—the Joyful Elm
Around whose trunk the lasses dance in May;—
And the Lord's Oak;—would plead their several rights
In vain, if He were master of their fate.
Not one would have his pitiful regard,
For prized accommodation, pleasant use,
For dignity, for old acquaintance sake,
For ancient custom or distinguished name.
His sentence to the axe would doom them all!
—But, green in age and lusty as he is
And promising to stand from year to year,
Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men
Than with the forest's more enduring growth,
His own appointed hour will come at last;
And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world,
This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall.
Now from the living pass we once again;
From Age," the Priest continued, "turn your thoughts;—
