Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration, Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in; But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden, Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever, Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,-- Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful blossom. Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine, Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike Protesilaus Rose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia, Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the prospect attaining, Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city, Withering still at the sight which still they upgrow to encounter. Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces, Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions, Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not, Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested billow, Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shall return to, Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination! Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages. V. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--from Florence. Dearest Miss Roper,--Alas! we are all at Florence quite safe, and You, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing! We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did from the troubles. Now you are really besieged; they tell us it soon will be over; Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city. Do you see Mr. Claude?--I thought he might do something for you. I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful. What is he doing? I wonder;--still studying Vatican marbles? Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is better. VI. Claude to Eustace.