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And the mists all around were departing
As Aurora came joyfully bright—
I saw for the first time this ash-tree;
'Twas then but a little small shoot
Scarce larger, in fact, than the grasses
Which closely encircle your boot.
Four centuries since then have departed,
Though it seems but a very short time,
Yet in it the tree has developed-

Attained both its age and its prime ;
For still as the seasons rolled onward,
In height and in beauty it grew
Till at length its trunk stood in thickness
Nine feet in diameter through.

Full nobly it looked in its prime then,

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With its huge mighty arms spread around,

Amid which the breeze like rippling seas

Broke oft with a murmuring sound. Such a tree the mind of the psalmist Likened the righteous and good, Bringing forth fruit in due season, Surpassing all trees of the wood ;Then came forth a wind strong and mighty And battled the branches about; Three days in its boisterous temper

It made through the marshes a rout.

In the midst of this terrible tempest,
When its fullest fury awoke,

To the tree with Leviathan vigour
It dealt forth a merciless stroke;

Then down came a side and its branches
All splintered and shattered and white,
Thus telling to future beholders

The tale of that pitiless night.

From that time to this in all weathers,
Keen ice, and the wintry flood,

Through the balms of the spring and the summer,
The old tree dismembered hath stood.
As one in the days of his manhood
Receiveth a loss and a wound,

So was it, indeed, with this ash-tree,

Whose branches now lumbered the ground. Its heart fell away from that moment,

Till nothing remained but the bark; This still, like a skin, stood around it, And as embers retained life's spark. But soon, by the warping of tempests

In the boughs still growing above, 'Twas rent in three places asunder ;

Thus three trunks from one trunk were rove.

Successive rains then gave it their stains,

Till at last the old veteran stood

Stricken with age and the ravages made
By storms of the weather and flood.
As its trunks formed a conical tent,
There oft the lone angler hied,

A shelter to gain from the fast falling rain
That beat in its fury outside.

And here would the owlet and fox,

Pert rabbit, or lambkin, or hare,

From the cold and the heat, for shadow or sleep,

To its hollow recesses repair.

From the tops of its sprays would the throstle Pour forth his glad song far over the hill, Whilst the robin would join in the anthem With his musical, rippling rill.

So thus this old tree of the marshes

Still giveth both shelter and shade, Still speaketh to each one among us, Put forth thy best efforts to aid, Those that by the storms of humanity Drift oft within range of our scope, Dismantled, despairing, and hardened, Yet longing for kindness and hope. Thus, then, as the ages roll onward, More verdant and loving shall be The hearts of all men and all nations

Typed in the green age of this tree.'—

Then ceased the Pebble from speaking;

But, willing to make some return For the pleasure it gave by its story, I said, 'If I only could learn, How I best could its interests serve To please it, I happy should be.' Then the Pebble relied on my word, And thus made its answer to me:

'Thou seest where yonder the streamlet Doth chatter o'er rough, stony ground: There often the sunbeams do linger,

And the mimic waves merrily bound; There, too, have I seen with the grayling The red-speckled trout and the dace.

So, if thou wouldst do me a favour,

Cast me hence mid those shallows apace.'

Then, taking it up, I threw lightly,
And gently it fell with a splash
Just where it wished mid the shallows,
Where brightly the waters did flash.
A moment I gazed where it rested,
Revolving the while in my mind
The lessons instructive and pleasant
We oft in the country may find;
Then, turning away, I walk'd homeward,

Through meadow, and common, and vale,

Well pleased as the story I pondered,—

The Pebble's quaint, marvellous tale.

Composed at Brawby, December 18, 1889, to January 21, 1890. The marshes here indicated lie between Ness, Salton and Butterwick. Since writing the foregoing, the old tree has been almost completely destroyed by fire. It happened in this wise. A swarm of wild bees hived in its interior; these being discovered by a country lout, whose head was considerably larger than his common sense, he, in order to obtain the honey, set fire to the dry pith or touchwood of which the trunk was largely composed. The result was that in a short time the fire completely gutted the tent, or main trunk, and the overhanging branches, weighing over a couple of tons, thus losing their support, came down with a crash in one universal and hopeless ruin. Nothing now remains but a stark, pointed and blackened stump, against which the sheep and cattle rub themselves. This happened in the autumn of 1893.

SNOWDROPS.

SNOWDROPS! fresh, beautiful fair!

Coming forth silently,

Emblems of purity;

Blooming sweet when orchards are bare,

When leafless the hedges,

And withered the sedges,

For earth winter's mantle doth wear.

Snowdrops! pure, saint-like, and calm!

In innocent beauty,

Each doing its duty,

Forth heralding Spring with a psalm.

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