Yew.... Sorrow.
Reading edition
The Yew is among all nations an emblem of sorrow. Its bare trunk, and dark foliage, with which its fruit, looking like drops of blood, stands in harsh contrast, excite in us a sort of aversion. Persons who sleep under a Yew tree are liable to be seized with dizziness, heaviness, and violent headache. Its juice is poisonous, and the tree exhausts the soil which supports it, and destroys all other plants which spring up beneath it. The Yew was planted in old English burying-grounds, and its wood was commonly employed for making bows and arrows before the introduction of fire-arms. The Greeks, impressed with the melancholy aspect of this tree, invented the fable of the unhappy Smilax; who, seeing that her love was rejected by young Crocus, was transformed into a Yew.
Who that hath ever been, Could bear to be no more? Yet who would tread again the scene He trod through life before? Montgomery.
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast; Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Shakspeare.
And sorrowing friends stood round the bed Whereon a form was lying: ’Twas Ellen;—there the suffering saint, Without a murmur or complaint, In peace and hope was dying. A silence deep as death was there When her true soul departed; And grace and mercy crowned her end Who lived the broken-hearted. MacKellar.
When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping O’er the chords of the youthful heart, And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping, Sees the visions of fancy depart; When the bloom of young feeling is dying, And the heart throbs with passion’s fierce strife When our sad days are wasted in sighing, Who then can find sweetness in life? Mrs. Embury.
He is dead. Those words toll on the ear, The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims. The spirit light has cast a farewell beam— Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and winged To heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears, For he was lovely, and leaves a hollow In our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose. But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us, Making that refresh which seemed to blast! C. Watson.