Page:Scenes and Hymns of Life.pdf/54

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Father.Hast thou heard, my boy, The peasant's legend of that quivering tree?

Child. No, father; doth he say the fairies dance Amidst the branches?

Father.Oh! a cause more deep, More solemn far, the rustic doth assign To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves! The cross, he deems, the blessed cross, whereon The meek Redeemer bowed his head to death, Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour, Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe, Making them tremulous, when not a breeze Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes The light lines of the shining gossamer.

Child, (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father?

Father.Nay, my child, We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, With something of a lingering love, I read The characters, by that mysterious hour,