THE ELM TREE: A DREAM IN THE WOODS. And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees. AS YOU LIKE IT TWAS in a shady Avenue, There came to me A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd overhead, And sometimes underground. Amongst the leaves it seem'd to sigh, It mutter'd in the stem and then No breeze there was to stir the leaves; No quake of earth to heave the roots, No bird was preening up aloft, From bough to bough to spring; Had ne'er a hole To hide a living thing! No scooping hollow cell to lodge The martin, bat, Or forest cat That nightly loves to prowl, But still the sound was in my ear, Where lofty Elms abound. O hath the Dryad still a tongue The olden time is dead and gone; From Poplar, Pine, and drooping Birch, No living sound E'er hovers round, Unless the vagrant breeze, 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, And from the twisted root. From these, a melancholy moan; No sign or touch of stirring air In still and silent slumber hush'd From that MYSTERIOUS TREE! A hollow, hollow, hollow sound, As is that dreamy roar When distant billows boil and bouna 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 Beneath their boughs; Or blood obscurely spilt; Or of that near-hand Mansion House A Royal Tudor built. Perchance, of booty won or shared Of graves, perchance, untimely scoop'd And privy leagues, Tradition leaves in blank. Of traitor lips that mutter'd plots Of Kin who fought and fell God knows the undiscovered schemes, The arts and acts of Hell, 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 Beyond that verdant aisle ! All overarch'd with lofty elms, That quench'd the light the while, As serves to fill Some old Cathedral pile! And many a gnarlèd trunk was there, Till Time had wrought them into shapes Or still more foul and hideous forms A crouching Satyr lurking here- As Gothic sculptor's whim- |