No bird was preening up aloft,
To rustle with its wing;

No squirrel, in its sport or fear,

From bough to bough to spring;
The solid bole

Had ne'er a hole

To hide a living thing!

No scooping hollow cell to lodge
A furtive beast or fowl,

The martin, bat,

Or forest cat

That nightly loves to prowl, Nor ivy nook so apt to shroud The moping, snoring owl.

But still the sound was in my ear,

A sad and solemn sound,

That sometimes murmur'd overhead,

And sometimes underground

'Twas in a shady Avenue

Where lofty Elms abound.

O hath the Dryad still a tongue
In this ungenial clime?
Have Sylvan Spirits still a voice
As in the classic prime-
To make the forest voluble,
As in the olden time?

The olden time is dead and gone;
Its years have fill'd their sum-
And e'en in Greece-her native Greece-
The Sylvan Nymph is dumb-
From ash, and beech, and aged oak,

No classic whispers come.

From Poplar, Pine, and drooping Birch,

And fragrant Linden Trees;

No living sound

E'er hovers round,

Unless the vagrant breeze,

The music of the merry bird,

Or hum of busy bees.

As if the boughs were wintry bare,
And wild winds sweeping by-
Whereas the smallest fleecy cloud
Was steadfast in the sky.

No sign or touch of stirring air
Could either sense observe-
The zephyr had not breath enough
The thistle-down to swerve,
Or force the filmy gossamers
To take another curve.

In still and silent slumber hush'd
All Nature seem'd to be:

From heaven above, or earth beneath,
No whisper came to me-
Except the solemn sound and sad

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,

A hundred miles or more.

No murmur of the gusty sea,
No tumult of the beach,

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
Of greenwood love or guilt,
Of whisper'd vows

Beneath their boughs;

Or blood obscurely spilt;

Or of that near-hand Mansion House
A Royal Tudor built.

Perchance, of booty won or shared
Beneath the starry cope-
Or where the suicidal wretch
Hung up the fatal rope;
Or Beauty kept an evil tryste,
Insnared by Love and Hope.

Of graves, perchance, untimely scoop'd
At midnight dark and dank-
And what is underneath the sod
Whereon the grass is rank-

Of old intrigues,

And privy leagues,

Tradition leaves in blank.

Of traitor lips that mutter'd plots-
Of Kin who fought and fell-
God knows the undiscover'd schemes,
The arts and acts of Hell,
Perform'd long generations since,

If trees had tongues to tell!

With wary eyes, and ears alert,
As one who walks afraid,
I wander'd down the dappled path
Of mingled light and shade-

How 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
Like Pan's fantastic brood;

Or still more foul and hideous forms
That Pagans carve in wood!

A crouching Satyr lurking here-
And there a Goblin grim-
As staring full of demon life

As Gothic sculptor's whim-
A marvel it had scarcely been.
To hear a voice from him!

Some whisper from that horrid mouth
Of strange, unearthly tone;
Or wild infernal laugh, to chill

One's marrow in the bone.

But no-it grins like rigid Death,

And silent as a stone !

As silent as its fellows be,

For all is mute with them

The branch that climbs the leafy roof

The rough and mossy stem

The crooked root,

And tender shoot,

Where hangs the dewy gem.

One mystic Tree alone there is,
Of sad and solemn sound-
That sometimes murmurs overhead,
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
Pursues his daily toil;

As witness many a prostrate trunk,
Bereft of leafy spoil,

Hard by its wooden stump, whereon
The adder loves to coil.

Alone he works-his ringing blows
Have banish'd bird and beast;
The Hind and Fawn have canter'd off
A hundred yards at least;
And on the maple's lofty top,

The linnet's song has ceased.

No eye his labour overlooks,

Or when he takes his rest;
Except the timid thrush that peeps
Above her secret nest,

Forbid by love to leave the young
Beneath her speckled breast.

The Woodman's heart is in his work,
His axe is sharp and good:

With sturdy arm and steady aim

He smites the gaping wood;
From distant rocks

His lusty knocks

Re-echo many a rood.

His axe is keen, his arm is strong;

The muscles serve him well;

His years have reach'd an extra span,
The number none can tell ;

But still his lifelong task has been

The Timber Tree to fell.