Who agonizeth there? Count thy brief pains

As the dust atom on life’s chariot-wheels,

And in a Saviour’s grief forget them all.

Mrs. Sigourney.

The palm—the vine—the cedar—each hath power

To bid fair oriental shapes glance by,

And each quick glistening of the laurel bower

Waft Grecian images, o’er fancy’s eye:

But thou, pale olive! in thy branches lie

Far deeper spells than prophet grove of old