'Thou, O poplar, tall and taper, Reachest up on high; Like a preacher pointing upward-- Upward to the sky. Thou, O holly, with thy berries, Gleaming redly bright, Comest, like a pleasant friend, When the dying year hath end, Comest to the Christmas party, round the ruddy fire-light. 'Thou, O yew, with sombre branches, And dark-veiled head-- Like a monk within the church-yard, When the prayers are said, Standing by the newly-buried In the depth of thought-- Tellest, with a solemn grace, Of the earthly dwelling-place, Of the soul to live for ever--of the body come to nought, 'Thou, O cedar, storm-enduring, Bent with years, and old, Standest with thy broad-eaved branches, Shadowing o'er the mould; Shadowing o'er the tender saplings, Like a patriarch mild, When he lifts his hoary head, And his hands a blessing shed, On the little ones around him--on the children of his child. 'And the light, smooth-barked hazel, And the dusky sloe, Are the poor men of the forest-- Are the weak and low. Yet unto the poor is given Power the earth to bless; And the sloe's small fruit of down, And the hazel's clusters brown, Are the tribute they can offer--are their mite of usefulness. 'When the awful words were spoken, "It is finished!"-- When the all-loving heart was broken, Bowed the patient head; When the earth grew dark as midnight In her solemn awe-- Then the forest-branches all Bent, with reverential fall-- Bent, as bent the Jewish foreheads at the giving of the law. 'But one tree was in the forest That refused to bow; Then a sudden blast came o'er it, And a whisper low Made the leaves and branches quiver-- Shook the guilty tree; And the voice was: "Tremble ever To eternity: Be a lesson from thee read-- He that boweth not his head, And obeyeth not his Maker, let him fear eternally!" 'So thou standest ever shaking, Ever quivering with fear, For the voice is still upon thee, And the whisper near. Like the guilty, conscience-haunted; And the name for thee Is, "The tree of many thoughts"-- Is, "The tree of many doubts;" And thy leaves are thoughts and doubtings--for thou art the sinner's tree. 'Thou, O chestnut, richly branched, Standest in thy might, Rising like a leafy tower In the summer light. And thy branches are fruit-laden, Waving bold and free; And the beams upon thee shed Are like blessings on thy head: Thou art strong, and fair, and fruitful--for thou art the good man's tree.