THE ELM TREE. No eye his labour overlooks, Except the timid thrush that peeps Forbid by love to leave the young The Woodman's heart is in his work, His lusty knocks Re-echo many a rood. Aloft, upon his poising steel The vivid sunbeams glance- His face is like a Druid's face, With wrinkles furrow'd deep, And, tann'd by scorching suns, as brown But the hair on brow, and cheek, and chin, His frame is like a giant's frame; So he felleth still With right good will, As if to build an ark! Oh! well to him the tree might breathe A sad and solemn sound, A sigh that murmur'd overhead, And groans from underground; As in that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound! THE ELM TREE. The elm, the beech, the drooping birch, And e'en the aspen's hoary leaf The pines-those old gigantic pines, The famous human group that writhes With snakes in wild festoon In ramous wrestlings interlaced, Like Titans of primeval girth By tortures overcome, Their brown enormous limbs they twine, Nay, yonder blasted Elm that stands So like a man of sin, Who, frantic, flings his arms abroad For all that gesture, so intense, An universal silence reigns In rugged bark or peel, Except that very trunk which rings With unrelenting zeal! No rustic song is on his tongue, No whistle on his lips; But with a quiet thoughtfulness His trusty tool he grips, And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out The bright and flying chips. Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint He spreads the fatal gash; With harsh and sudden crash, Oh! now the Forest Trees may sigh,- The elm, the birch, the drooping beech, With solemn groan A goodly Elm, of noble girth, That thrice the human span— While on their variegated course The constant Seasons ran, Through gale, and hail, and fiery boltHad stood erect as Man. But now, like mortal Man himself, In all its giant bulk and length The echo sleeps: the idle axe, A disregarded tool, Lies crushing with its passive weight THE ELM TREE. The toad's reputed stool; The Woodman wipes his dewy brow No zephyr stirs: the ear may catch No leafy noise, nor inward voice, As in that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound! PART III. The deed is done: the Tree is low His toil has found its term; And where he wrought the speckled thrush Securely hunts the worm. The cony from the sandy bank Has run a rapid race, Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern, To seek the open space; And on its haunches sits erect To clean its furry face. |