Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/370



stood alone in an unpitying crowd— His mates fell from him, as the grub-worms drop From the green stalk that once had nourished them, But now is withered and all rottenness Because it gave such shelter. Pleasure's train— The light-winged tribes that seek the sunshine only— No more endeavoured from his eye to win The smile of approbation. Grief and Care Stalked forth upon the theatre of his heart, In many a gloomy and mishapen guise, Till of the glories of his earlier self The world, his base and hollow auditory, Left but a ghastly phantom. As a tree, A goodly tree—that stricken is and wasted, By elemental conflicts—falls at last, Even in the fulness of its branching honours, Prostrate before the storm—yet majestic In its huge downfal, so, at last, fell he!