The league of the Iroquois and other legends : from the Indian muse

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THE
BROKEN HEART.
THE lofty oak that proudly stands
To drink the summer's sun and rain,
The glory of the forest-lands,
A beauty on the verdured plain,
Though it the tempest spares alone,
Though cloven through its robe of green,
Bereft of branches, wildly strown,
Will weave anew its leafy screen.
Yet grows no tree in all the wood,
In all the grove-emmantled vale,
That blooms to charm the solitude
And glad the morning's breath inhale,
But, if rude hand with hapless art
Deep ring the barky stem around
Whence flows the sap to feed the heart,
Will, withered, topple to the ground.