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 Laocoon-

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 reigus
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

HOOD.

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 spanWhile 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

The toad's reputed stool;
The Woodman wipes his dewy brow
Within the shadows cool.

No zephyr stirs: the ear may catch

The smallest insect-hum;

But on the disappointed sense
No mystic whispers come;
No tone of sylvan sympathy-
The Forest Trees are dumb.

No leafy noise, nor inward voice,
No sad and solemn sound,
That sometimes murmurs overhead,
And sometimes underground-

As in that shady Avenue,
Where lofty Elms abound!

PART III.

The deed is done: the Tree is low
That stood so long and firm;

The Woodman and his axe are gone,

His toil has found its term;

And where he wrought the speckled thrush Securely hunts the worm.

The cony from the sandy bank

Has run a rapid race,

Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern,

To seek the open space;

And on its haunches sits erect

To clean its furry face.

HOOD.

The dappled fawn is close at hand,
The hind is browsing near,-

And on the larch's lowest bough

The ousel whistles clear;

But checks the note

Within its throat,

As choked with sudden fear!

With sudden fear her wormy quest
The thrush abruptly quits;
Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern
The startled cony flits;

And on the larch's lowest bough

No more the ousel sits.

With sudden fear,

The dappled deer

Effect a swift escape;

But well might bolder creatures start And fly, or stand agape,

With rising hair, and curdled blood,

To see so grim a Shape!

The very sky turns pale above,

The earth grows dark beneath ;

The human Terror thrills with cold,

And draws a shorter breath

An universal panic owns

The dread approach of DEATH!

With silent pace, as shadows come,

And dark as shadows be,

The grisly Phantom takes his stand
Beside the fallen Tree,

And scans it with his gloomy eyes,
And laughs with horrid glee-