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