Father. Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant’s legend of that quivering tree?
Child. No, father: doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?
Father. Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow’d his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,