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,

Unless the vagrant breeze,

The music of the merry bird,
Or hum of busy bees.

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, 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,

And from the twisted root.

From these, a melancholy moan;
From those, a dreary sigh;
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

HOOD.

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 may foam and fret,
The bounded sense could reach-
Methought 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.

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

HOOD.

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 glanceAbout 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!