[From Mona's Isle, 1844]
ALAS ! my fond Muse, how camest thou to linger
So long neath the shadow of Times fleeting wing,
Ere thou drew oer thy lyre thy magical finger,
Or gently reverbrated memorys string?
For now the old aspen-tree towers no longer
Oer th old flaxen mill, or the clear gliding stream,
Tho my wish to have saved it could not have been stronger,
To remind me once more of my childhoods lost dream.
Should Fate eer command me again to revisit
That spot which still lingers on memorys view,
What will be my feelings when doomd thus to miss it,
And perhaps find a sapling sprung up in its lieu
And the green fertile bank, which so long it had shaded
From the summers noon rays, unshelterd and bare,
And those cowslips and daisies, all witherd and faded
Which grew neath its shadow so blooming and fair!
Farewell to the tree and its beauty for ever,
No more neath its shade shall my fancy rove free,
For the saw, or the axe, from the bank of the river
Hath severd the grasp of the old aspen-tree!
The fate of the aspen but too much resembles
The flourish of man in this world from his birth,
Awhile in the pride of his station he lingers,
Death strikes, and his glory is hurld to the earth!