And sometimes underground"Twas in a shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. From poplar, pine, and drooping birch, E'er hovers round, Unless the vagrant breeze, The music of the merry bird, Or hum of busy bees. But busy bees forsake the Elm The finch was in the hawthorn-bush, And among the firs the brooding dove, That else might murmur soft. Yet still I heard that solemn sound, And sad it was to boot, From ev'ry overhanging bough, And each minuter shoot; From rugged trunk and mossy rind, As if the boughs were wintry bare, No sign or touch of stirring air The thistle-down to swerve, Or force the filmy gossamers To take another curve. 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 bound Along a shingly shore But the ocean brim was far aloof, No murmur of the gusty sea, The bounded sense could reachMethought the trees in mystic tongue Were talking each to each! Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales Of greenwood love or guilt, Or blood obscurely spilt; Or of that near-hand Mansion House A royal Tudor built. With wary eyes, and ears alert, I wander'd down the dappled path Of mingled light and shadeHow sweetly gleam'd that arch of blue. Beyond the green arcade! How cheerly shone the glimpse of Heav'n Beyond that verdant aisle! All overarch'd with lofty elms, That quench'd the light, the while, As dim and chill 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; A marvel it had scarcely been 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 The rough and mossy stem— And tender shoot Where hangs the dewy gem. One mystic Tree alone there is, And sometimes underground 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 scatter'd 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, whercon Alone he works-his ringing blows The hind and fawn have canter'd off |