The music of the merry bird, But busy bees forsake the Elm That bears no bloom aloft The Finch was in the hawthorn-bush, The Blackbird in the croft; And among the firs the brooding Dove, Yet still I heard that solemn sound, And each minuter shoot; From the rugged trunk and mossy rind, From these, a melancholy moan; No sign or touch of stirring air In still and silent slumber hush'd From heaven above, or earth beneath, From that MYSTERIOUS TREE! A hollow, hollow, hollow sound, As is that dreamy roar When distant billows boil and bound But the ocean brim was far aloof, No murmur of the gusty sea, However they might foam and fret, The bounded sense could reachMethought the trees in mystic tongue Were talking each to each!— Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales Or blood obscurely spilt ; Or of that near-hand Mansion House A Royal Tudor built. Perchance, of booty won or shared Beneath the starry cope- Of graves, perchance, untimely scoop'd And privy leagues, Tradition leaves in blank. Of traitor lips that mutter'd plots- Perform'd long generations since, With wary eyes, and ears alert, How sweetly gleamed that arch of blue How clearly shone the glimpse of Heav'n That quench'd the light the while, As serves to fill Some old Cathedral pile! And many a gnarlèd trunk was there, That ages long had stood, Till Time had wrought them into shapes Or still more foul and hideous forms A crouching Satyr lurking here— As Gothic sculptor's whim- Some whisper from that horrid mouth But no-it grins like rigid Death, As silent as its fellows be, For all is mute with them The branch that climbs the leafy roof- And tender shoot, Where hangs the dewy gem. One mystic Tree alone there is, In all that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. PART II. THE Scene is changed! No green Arcade— No Trees all ranged a-row But scattered like a beaten host, Dispersing to and fro; With here and there a sylvan corse, That fell before the foe. The Foe that down in yonder dell As witness many a prostrate trunk, Hard by its wooden stump, whereon Alone he works-his ringing blows The Hind and Fawn have canter'd off 1 No eye his labor overlooks, Or when he takes his rest; Except the timid thrush that peeps Forbid by love to leave the young The Woodman's heart is in his work, From distant rocks His lusty knocks Re-echo many a rood. His axe is keen, his arm is strong; But still his lifelong task has been Through Summer's parching sultriness, And Winter's freezing cold, From sapling youth To virile growth, And Age's rigid mould, His energetic axe hath rung Aloft, upon his poising steel The vivid sunbeams glance- His face is like a Druid's face, With wrinkles furrow'd deep, |