Yet sometimes still there comes a wasted form,
With locks like thine, by many winters faded;
Well has he brav’d the battle, and the storm,
The sachem whom thy youthful branches shaded.
Ye are a noble pair, ye stand the last,
Each of a noble race; and ye are staying
Magnificent mementoes of the past,
Glorious and wonderful in your decaying.
And thou dost toss thy branches to the wind,
And sigh sad dirges of thy perished glory;