The labourers worked away, but their pick-axes became unhafted.

They could not up-root the tree; they grew tired and forsook the work.

When the summer came, glorious verdure again clothed the remaining boughs; the birds sang sweetly in the branches, and the neighbours rejoiced that its roots had been so numerous and the tree had been so firmly planted.
Jasmin's description of his mother-tongue is most touching.

Seasons pass away, and, as they roll on, their echoes sound in our ears; but the loved tongue shall not and must not die.

The mother-tongue recalls our own dear mother, sisters, friends, and crowds of bygone associations, which press into our minds while sitting by the evening fire.