THE LONG DYING.
The dying tree no pang sustains;
But, by degrees relinquishing
Companionship of beams and rains,
Forgets the balmy breath of Spring:
From off the enringèd trunk that keeps
His annual count of ages gone
Th' embrace of Summer slowly slips:
Still stands the giant in the sun:
His myriad lips, that suck'd of old
The dewy breasts of heaven, are dry;
His root remit the crag, the mould;
Yet painless is his latest sigh:
He falls; the forests round him roar;—
Ere long on quiet bank and copse
Untrembling moonbeams rest; once more
The startled babe his head down-drops:
But ah for one who never drew
From age to age a painless breath!
And ah the old wrong ever new!
And ah the many-centuried death
