“Father.—Hast thou heard, my boy,

The peasant’s legend of that quivering tree?

“Child.—No, father; doth he say the fairies dance

Amidst its 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 formed of Aspen wood; and since that hour