YE Trees! whose slender roots entwine Altars that piety neglects; Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine Which no devotion now respects; If not a straggler from the herd Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride In aught that ye would grace or hide-- How sadly is your love misplaced, Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste! 10 Ye, too, wild Flowers! that no one heeds, And ye--full often spurned as weeds-- In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness From fractured arch and mouldering wall-- Do but more touchingly recall Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness, Making the precincts ye adorn Appear to sight still more forlorn.
