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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 undiscovered 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 cheerily 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 gnarled 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 labor 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.

Through Summer’s parching sultriness,
And Winter’s freezing cold,
From sapling youth
To virile growth.
And Age’s rigid mould,
His energetic axe hath rung
Within that Forest old.

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.