But not because of its magnificence
      Dear is the Casuarina to my soul: 
      Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,
    O sweet companions, loved with love intense,
      For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear! 
    Blent with your images, it shall arise
    In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes! 
      What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear
    Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach? 
    It is the tree’s lament, an eerie speech,
    That haply to the unknown land may reach.

    Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith! 
      Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away
      In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,
    When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith
      And the waves gently kissed the classic shore
    Of France or Italy, beneath the moon,
    When earth lay tranced in a dreamless swoon: 
      And every time the music rose—­before
    Mine inner vision rose a form sublime,
    Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime
    I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.

    Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay
      Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those
      Who now in blessed sleep, for aye, repose,
    Dearer than life to me, alas! were they! 
      May’st thou be numbered when my days are done
    With deathless trees—­like those in Borrowdale,
    Under whose awful branches lingered pale
      “Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,
    And Time, the shadow;” and though weak the verse
    That would thy beauty fain, oh fain rehearse,
    May Love defend thee from Oblivion’s curse.