In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose,
Here, where the blight hath wings.
And as a flower, with some fine sense imbued,
To shrink before the wind’s vicissitude,
So in thy prescient breast
Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill
To the low footstep of each coming ill:
Oh! canst thou dream of rest?
Bear up thy dream! thou mighty and thou weak!
Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to break—