Farewell, old oak! I leave thee to the wind,
And go to struggle with the chafing tide--
Soon to the dust thy form shall be resigned,
And I would sleep thy crumbling limbs beside.

Thy memory will pass; thy sheltering shade,
Will weave no more its tissue o'er the sod;
And all thy leaves, ungathered in the glade,
Shall, by the reckless hoof of time, be trod.

My cherished hopes, like shadows and like leaves,
Name, fame, and fortune--each shall pass away;
And all that castle-building fancy weaves,
Shall sleep, unthinking, as the drowsy clay.

But from thy root another tree shall bloom--
With living leaves its tossing boughs shall rise;
And the winged spirit--bursting from the tomb,--
Oh, shall it spring to light beyond these skies?




To a Wild Violet, in March.

[Illustration: To a Wild Violet, in March]

My pretty flower,
How cam'st thou here?
Around thee all