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Toll ye, my Second! toll !
Fling high the Hambeaux’ light; And sing the hymn for a parted soul,
Beneath the silent night! The wreath upon his head,
The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed:
So-take him to his rest!
Call ye, my Whole, ay, call!
The lord of lute and lay ;
With a noble song to-day;
No fitter hand may crave
On the turf of a soldier's grave.
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,
And from a Tree
There came to me
And sometimes underground.
Amongst the leaves it seemed to sigh,
Amid the boughs to moan ;
The roots took up the tone ;
The dead began to groan.
No breeze there was to stir the leaves;
No bolts that tempests launch,
No gale to bend the branch ;
And sometimes underground'Twas in a shady Avenue,
Where lofty Elms abound.
From poplar, pine, and drooping birch, And fragrant linden trees;
No living sound
E'er hovers round,
Or hum of busy bees.
But busy bees forsake the Elm
That bears no bloom aloftThe finch was in the hawthorn-bush,
The blackbird in the croft ; 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,
And each minuter shoot;
And from the twisted root.
From these,-a melancholy moan;
From those,-a dreary sigh ;
And wild winds sweeping by,–
Was steadfast in the sky.
No sign or touch of stirring air
Could either sense observe-
The thistle-down to swerve, Or force the filmy gossamers
To take another curve.
In still and silent slumber hush'd
All Nature seemed to be: From heaven above, or earth beneath,
No whisper came to meExcept the solemn sound and sad
From that MYSTERIOUS TREE!
A hollow, hollow, hollow sound,
As is that dreamy roar
Along a shingly shore-
A hundred miles or more.
No murmur of the gusty sea,
No tumult of the beach, However they may foam and fret,
The bounded sense could reachMethought the trees in mystic tongue
Were talking each to each !
Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales
Of whisper'd vows
Beneath their boughs ; Or blood obscurely spilt; Or of that near-hand Mansion House
A royal Tudor built.
With wary eyes, and ears alert,
As one who walks afraid,