THE ELM-TREES. 271
When summer, in her radiant loom,
The burning solstice weaves ; And how, with firm endurance,
They brav'd an adverse sky, Like Belisarius, doom'd to meet
His country's wintry eye.
I've roam'd through varied regions,
Where stranger-streamlets run, And where the proud magnolia flaunts
Beneath a southern sun, And where the sparse and stinted pine
Puts forth its sombre form, A vassal to the arctic cloud,
And to the tyrant storm,
And where the pure, unruffled lakes
In placid wavelets roll, Or where sublime Niagara shakes
The wonder-stricken soul, I've sought the temple's sculptur'd pile,
The pencil's glorious art, Yet still those old green trees I wore
Depictur'd on my heart.
Years fled ; my native vale I sought, Where those tall elm-trees wave ;
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