This hand shall tear
And lay thee bare,
So that thy root

No more shall shoot;
There thou shalt lie,
And there shalt die;
The sun's hot flame
Shall burn thy shame;
Storms with their lash
Shall drive thine ash:
This is thy meed,

Thou wicked weed.

THE TREES OF THE WOOD.

"That which is crooked cannot be made straight."

As, walking through a wood, one sees
Some straight, and other crooked trees,
And even those, which straightest grow,
Are not quite faultless every bough,
While e'en the crookedest we see
Yet have a naked dignity;

So in the world- some men are good;

These are the straight ones of the wood;
Others are badly natured; these,
Just like those crooked ones, displease:
Yet take the best, you will not find
That they are perfect of their kind ;
Or take the worst, and they excel
In parts the ones you like right well ;

Thus Nature tells us to beware,

And both our praise and censure spare;
For not a soul beneath Heaven's vault
But hath or here or there a fault,
Nor one so monstrously misgrown

But hath some beauty for its own.

THE LEAVES OF THE WOOD.

"As of the green leaves on a thick tree, so is the generation of flesh and blood."

Bright green, and then a darker hue,
But still most rich the foliage is to view ;
Then darker still, but just

A little marrèd with the sun and dust;
Ere long the forest is one mass of gold,

Which tells us that the leaves are getting old;
Then let the North wind blow, or only just
A little breeze, or sharp and sudden gust,
Soon all the glory of the wood is seen

Scattered, or piled in heaps upon the green;

The trees have lost their crown,

The dead damp leaves are turned to earthy brown,
And with the winter's gloom

They're sunk in Earth's deep tomb:

Thus all created things do pass away,

And man too has his day;

Childhood, youth, manhood, age-when these are gone,

His cycle is complete, his year is done.

THE DYING LEAVES.

"A word in season."

The leaves that are falling
Are silently calling:

'All ye who pass by,
Not we alone die;
Your beauty shall fade,
And you must be laid
In the cold earth to rot,
Unseen and forgot;

And others shall tread

And crush us when dead,

Themselves to be trod

In their time fixed by God;

And the fresh winds which blew,

And the soft rains and dew,

And the light of the Sun,

Now our short day is done,