And, trusting to an aged mother's care,
His darkling steps: Beneath that falling beech,
Whose wide-spread branches touch the water's edge,
He lov'd to sit, and feel the freshen'd gale
Breathe cool upon him. Then that falling beech
Was a young, graceful tree; which, starting up,
Amid the looser fragments of the rock,
Rear'd boldly in the air its lofty head,
While, struggling with the stone, the nervous roots
Pursued their own direction, elbowing out,