Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - XXIII. - Among The Ruins Of A Convent In The Apennines

Ye Trees! whose slender roots entwine Altars that piety neglects; Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine Which no devotion now respects; If not a straggler from the herd Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride In aught that ye would grace or hide How sadly is your love misplaced, Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste! Ye, too, wild Flowers! that no one heeds, And ye, full often spurned as weeds In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness From fractured arch and mouldering wall Do but more touchingly recall Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness, Making the precincts ye adorn Appear to sight still more forlorn.