TO AN ELM.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

BRAVELY thy old arms fling
Their countless pennons to the fields of air,
And, like a sylvan king,

Their panoply of green still proudly wear.

As some rude tower of old,

Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form, With limbs of giant mould,

To battle sternly with the winter storm.

In Nature's mighty fane,

Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky;
How long the pilgrim train

That with a benison have pass'd thee by!

Lone patriarch of the wood!
Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise,
Of fresh and dauntless mood,
Spreading thy branches to the open skies,

The locust knows thee well,

And when the summer-days his notes prolong, Hid in some leafy cell,

Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song.

Oft, on a morn in spring,

The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray,
And there securely swing,

To whet his beak, and pour his blithesome lay.

How bursts thy monarch wail,

When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life, And, bared to meet the gale,

Wave thy old branches, eager for the strife!

TO AN ELM.

The sunset often weaves

Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare,
While the fresh-murmuring leaves

Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air.

Sacred thy roof of green

To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free,
Gay youth and age serene
Turn with familiar gladness unto thee.

O, hither should we roam,

To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade.
Beneath thy emerald dome

Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade.

With blessings at thy feet,

Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest;
Thy verdant, calm retreat

Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast.

When, at the twilight hour,

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Plays through thy tressil crown the sun's last gleam, Under thy ancient bower

The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream.

And when the moonbeams fall

Through thy broad canopy upon the grass,
Making a fairy hall,

As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass;

Then lovers haste to thee,

With hearts that tremble like that shifting light,
To them, O, brave old tree,

Thou art joy's shrine-a temple of delight!

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

YES, the year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and blear❜d!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
Sorely,―sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;

Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,

It is a sound of woe,

A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain-passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing; Pray for this poor soul,
Pray,-pray!

The hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;—
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!

There he stands, in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,

Crown'd with wild flowers and with heather,

Like weak, despised Lear,

A king, a king!

MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.

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Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!

His joy! his last! O, the old man gray
Loveth her ever-soft voice,

Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,

And the voice gentle and low

Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
Pray do not mock me so!

Do not laugh at me!

And now the sweet day is dead;

Cold in his arms it lies,

No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,

No mist nor stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
Vex not his ghost!

Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,

The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest

Sweep the red leaves away! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,

O soul, could thus decay,

And be swept away!

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MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.

For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;

And the stars, from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie Eleyson!
Christe Eleyson!

THE END.