I love to gaze up at the grand old trees;
Their branches point like hope to Heaven serene;
Their roots point to the silent world that's dead;
Their grand old trunks hold towns and fleets for us,
And cots and coffins for the race unborn.
When at their feet their predecessors fell,
Spring covered their remains with mourning moss,
And wrote their epitaph in pale wood flowers,
And Summer gave ripe berries to the birds
To stay and sing their sad sweet requiem;
And Autumn rent the garments of the trees
That stood mute mourners in a field of graves,
And Winter wrapped them in a winding sheet.
They seemed like giants sleeping in their shrouds.
DIARY OF FRANCES KRASINSKA;
OR, LIFE IN POLAND DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.
CASTLE OF JANOWIEC,
Wednesday, _May 27th, 1760._
I had hoped too much! He is going, and the memory of the past will
render the days to come very sad. I knew that Monday was an unlucky day:
since my maid gave me such a fright by announcing the approaching
departure of the princes, all has gone from bad to worse.
The huntsman who brought me the bouquet from the prince, told me, in his
name, that he too was forced to depart. With great difficulty could he
invent a pretext for remaining three days after his brothers left. These
three days will not expire until to-morrow, and yet he leaves me to-day;
he must go, and can no longer delay.
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