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.

Aloft, upon his poising steel

The vivid sunbeams glance-
About his head and round his feet
The forest shadows dance;
And bounding from his russet coat
The acorn drops askance.

His face is like a Druid's face,

With wrinkles furrow'd deep,

And, tann'd by scorching suns, as brown
As corn that's ripe to reap;

But the hair on brow, and cheek, and chin,
Is white as wool of sheep.

His frame is like a giant's frame;
His legs are long and stark;
His arms like limbs of knotted yew;
His hands like rugged bark;

So he felleth still

With right good will,

As if to build an ark!

Oh well to him the tree might breathe

A sad and solemn sound,

A sigh that murmur'd overhead,

And groans from underground;

As in that shady Avenue,

Where lofty Elms abound!

The elm, the beech, the drooping birch,
Without the least demur;

And e'en the aspen's hoary leaf
Makes no unusual stir.

The pines-those old gigantic pines,
That writhe-recalling soon

The famous human group that writhes
With snakes in wild festoon-

In ramous wrestlings interlaced,

A Forest Läocoon

Like Titans of primeval girth

By tortures overcome,

Their brown enormous limbs they twine,
Bedew'd with tears of gum—
Fierce agonies that ought to yell,

But, like the marble, dumb.

Nay, yonder blasted Elm that stands

So like a man of sin,

Who, frantic, flings his arms abroad

To feel the worm within

For all that gesture, so intense,
It makes no sort of din!

An universal silence reigns

In rugged bark or peel,

Except that very trunk which rings
Beneath the biting steel-

Meanwhile, the Woodman plies his axe

With unrelenting zeal!

No rustic song is on his tongue,

No whistle on his lips;

But with a quiet thoughtfulness

His trusty tool he grips,

And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out The bright and flying chips.

Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint

He spreads the fatal gash;

Till, lo! the remnant fibres rend,

With harsh and sudden crash, And on the dull resounding turf The jarring branches lash!

Oh! now the Forest Trees may sigh,

The ash, the poplar tall,

The elm, the birch, the drooping beech,

The aspens-one and all,
With solemn groan

And hollow moan,

Lament a comrade's fall!

A goodly Elm, of noble girth,

That thrice the human span— While on their variegated course The constant Seasons ran,

Through gale, and hail, and fiery boltHad stood erect as Man.

But now, like mortal Man himself,
Struck down by hand of God,
Or heathen idol tumbled prone
Beneath th' Eternal's nod,

In all its giant bulk and length
It lies along the sod!-

The echo sleeps: the idle axe,

A disregarded tool,

Lies crushing with its passive weight