Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last;
For him, eternity hath tenfold day:
We feel, we know, ’tis thus—yet nature will have way.
What though amidst us, like a blasted oak,
Sadd’ning the scene where once it nobly reign’d,
A dread memorial of the lightning stroke,
Stamp’d with its fiery record, he remain’d;
Around that shatter’d tree still fondly clung
Th’ undying tendrils of our love, which drew
Fresh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung