"No passive unregarded tree, A senseless thing of wood, Wherein the sluggish sap ascends To swell the vernal bud But conscious, moving, breathing trunks "No forest Monarch yearly clad "Ah! little recks the Royal mind, While tapers shine and Music breathes "Ah! little dreams the haughty Peer, The while his Falcon flies Or on the blood-bedabbled turf "But haughty Peer and mighty King Shall lodge him well Whose sceptre ruled a realm- "The tatter'd, lean, dejected wretch, Who begs from door to door, And dies within the cressy ditch, Or on the barren moor, The friendly Elm shall lodge and clothe That houseless man, and poor! "Yea, this recumbent rugged trunk, "A Miser hoarding heaps of gold, Distilling bitter, bitter drops From sweets of former years— "A Man within whose gloomy mind, Hath madly, darkly drunk- Within this very trunk! "This massy trunk that lies along, And many more must fall For the very knave Who digs the grave, The man who spreads the pall, And he who tolls the funeral bell, The Elm shall have them all! "The tall abounding Elm that grows With colonies of noisy rooks That nestle on its crown. "And well th' abounding Elm may grow In field and hedge so rife, In forest, copse, and wooded park, For, every hour that passes by, Shall end a human life!" The Phantom ends: the shade is gone; And bounding through the golden fern The Thrush's mate beside her sits The Dove is in the evergreens; The Fly-bird flutters up and down, To catch its tiny prey. The gentle Hind and dappled Fawn Each harmless furr'd and feather'd thing But on my sadden'd spirit still The Shadow leaves a shade. A secret, vague, prophetic gloom, This warm and living frame shall find That mystic Tree which breathed to me That sometimes murmur'd overhead Where lofty Elms abound. THE LAY OF THE LABORER. It was a gloomy evening. The sun had set, angry and threatening, lighting up the horizon with lurid flame and flakes of blood-red-slowly quenched by slants of distant rain, dense and dark as segments of the old deluge. At last the whole sky was black, except the low-driving grey scud, amidst which faint streaks of lightning wandered capriciously towards their appointed aim, like young fire-fiends playing on their errands. "There will be a storm!" whispered nature herself, as the crisp fallen leaves of autumn started up with a hollow rustle, and began dancing a wild round, with a whirlwind of dust, like some frantic orgy ushering in a revolution. "There will be a storm!" I echoed, instinctively looking round for the nearest shelter, and making towards it at my best pace. At such times the proudest heads will bow to very low lintels; and setting dignity against a ducking, I very willingly condescended to stoop into "The Plough.' It was a small hedge alehouse, too humble for the refinement of a separate parlor. One large tap-room served for all comers, gentle or simple, if gentle folks, except from stress of weather, ever sought such a place of entertainment. Its scanty accommodations were even meaner than usual: the Plough had suffered from the hardness of the times, and exhibited the bareness of a house recently unfurnished by the broker. The aspect of the public room was cold and cheerless. There was a mere glimmer of fire in the grate, and a single unsnuffed candle stood guttering over the neck of the stone bottle in which it was stuck, in the middle of the plain deal table. The low ceiling, blackened by smoke, hung overhead like a canopy of gloomy clouds; the walls were |