THE ELM-TREES.
263
Strange faces from her window look'd,
Strange voices fill'd her cot,
And, 'neath the very vine she train'd,
Her memory was forgot.
I left a youthful mother,
Her children round her knee,
Those babes had risen into men,
And coldly look'd on me;
But she, with all her bloom and grace,
Did in the churchyard lie,
While still those changeless elms upbore
Their kingly canopy.
Though we, who 'neath their lofty screen
Pursued our childish play,
May show amid our sunny locks
Some lurking tints of gray,
And though the village of our love
Doth many a change betide,
Still do those sacred elm-trees stand,
In all their strength and pride.
