Where fairy fern-fronds like Narcissus vain
Their graceful forms saw mirrored back again
In glassy pools below the cascade's fall
And waved to every zephyr's breezy call,
I saw thee every year farther below,
Thou saw'st my rise, my reign, my overthrow;
Again the wild deer shall the grasses press
That carpet all around with loveliness,
Again the hunter rest upon the brink
Of the cool stream and from its waters drink;
But nevermore shall my inviting shade
Shield the fierce heat of Summer from the glade:
Trailing in dust are all my hoary plumes
While every sunny hour my life consumes,
And long grey moss and broken mistletoe
Lie strewn around like cerements of woe.
I envy now the tules by yonder lake
That bend to every gale but do not break,
The tallest, half way sunk in waters deep,
Their feeble roots through mire and driftings creep;
Yet I, with giant roots through rock-beds wound
Or firmly fastened in the solid ground,
I, who once called them weak, and small and low,
Fain would be growing as I see them grow.
But why my common heritage deplore?
The bravest warrior finds his triumphs o'er,
The mightiest king laments the fatal hour
When ruined lies the scepter of his power;
And I have lived while empires rose and fell
And kings lived out their little day as well;
Yet I who stood for centuries the same,
Chanting the triumph song of power and fame,
Now lie with all my vaunted vigor spent
The vanity of pride my last lament!"
Their graceful forms saw mirrored back again
In glassy pools below the cascade's fall
And waved to every zephyr's breezy call,
I saw thee every year farther below,
Thou saw'st my rise, my reign, my overthrow;
Again the wild deer shall the grasses press
That carpet all around with loveliness,
Again the hunter rest upon the brink
Of the cool stream and from its waters drink;
But nevermore shall my inviting shade
Shield the fierce heat of Summer from the glade:
Trailing in dust are all my hoary plumes
While every sunny hour my life consumes,
And long grey moss and broken mistletoe
Lie strewn around like cerements of woe.
I envy now the tules by yonder lake
That bend to every gale but do not break,
The tallest, half way sunk in waters deep,
Their feeble roots through mire and driftings creep;
Yet I, with giant roots through rock-beds wound
Or firmly fastened in the solid ground,
I, who once called them weak, and small and low,
Fain would be growing as I see them grow.
But why my common heritage deplore?
The bravest warrior finds his triumphs o'er,
The mightiest king laments the fatal hour
When ruined lies the scepter of his power;
And I have lived while empires rose and fell
And kings lived out their little day as well;
Yet I who stood for centuries the same,
Chanting the triumph song of power and fame,
Now lie with all my vaunted vigor spent
The vanity of pride my last lament!"
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