And tann'd by scorching suns as brown As corn that's ripe to reap; But the hair on brow, on cheek, and chin, Is white as wool of sheep. His frame is like a giant's frame; With right good will, As if to build an Ark! Oh! well within His fatal path Through trunk and root, And branch and shoot, A low complaining make! 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! But calm and mute the Maple stands, The Plane, the Ash, the Fir, 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, The famous Human Group that writhes With Snakes in wild festoonIn ramous wrestlings interlaced A Forest Läocoon Like Titans of primeval girth Their brown enormous limbs they twine Nay, yonder blasted Elm that stands Who, frantic, flings his arms abroad No rustic song is on his tongue, 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, And on the dull resounding turf Oh! now the Forest Trees may sigh, The Elm, the Birch, the drooping Beech, And hollow moan Lament a comrade's fall! A goodly Elm, of noble girth, But now, like mortal Man himself, Ay, now the Forest Trees may grieve The Echo sleeps: the idle axe, Lies crushing with its passive weight The Woodman wipes his dewy brow Within the shadows cool. No Zephyr stirs the ear may catch But on the disappointed sense PART II. No mystic whispers come; The Forest Trees are dumb. No leafy noise, nor inward voice, As in that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound! PART III. THE deed is done: the Tree is low His toil has found its term; And where he wrought the speckled Thrush 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. 178 The startled Cony flits; And on the Larch's lowest bough With sudden fear The dappled Deer Effect a swift escape; But well might bolder creatures start, With rising hair, and curdled blood, The very sky turns pale above; An universal panic owns The dread approach of DEATH! With silent pace, as shadows come, The grisly Phantom takes his stand And scans it with his gloomy eyes, A dreary laugh and desolate, His hatchet was not dull! "The human arm and human tool Have felt the stroke My turn it is to fell! |