THE LAST TREE OF THE FOREST. 121 "I have seen the knight and his train ride past, With his banner borne on high; O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast "The pilgrim at my feet hath laid His palm-branch 'midst the flowers, And told his beads, and meekly pray'd, Kneeling, at vesper-hours. "And the merry-men of wild and glen, In the green array they wore, Have feasted here, with the red wine's cheer, And the hunter's song of yore. "And the minstrel, resting in my shade, With the lordly tales of the high Crusade, "But now the noble forms are gone "There is no glory left us now Like the glory with the dead :— Oh! thou dark Tree, thou lonely Tree, A peasant's home in thy shades I see, VOL. VI.- 11 A lovely and a mirthful sound Of laughter meets mine ear; For the poor man's children sport around And roses lend that cabin's wall And the village bells are on the breeze How can I mourn, 'midst things like these, THE STREAMS. "The power, the beauty, and the majesty, Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and watery depths; all those have vanish'd! But still the heart doth need a language!" COLERIDGE's Wallenstein. YE have been holy, O founts and floods! THE STREAMS. Hallow'd by man, in his dreams of old, Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers, 123 Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone, Have ye swept along, in your wanderings free, Where all is silent now! Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been On your wild banks arise. For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth, birth; Whether their cavern'd murmur fills, With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills, Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow Or whether ye gladden the desert sands Where a shepherd-king might have watch'd his flock, Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads, Or whether, in bright old lands renown'd, Voices and lights of the lonely place! There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers But the wild sweet tales, that with elves and fays And the memory left by departed love, These are your charms, bright streams! Now is the time of your flowery rites, THE VOICE OF THE WIND. From your marble urns ye have burst away, Yet holy still be your living springs, That gives the worn spirit its youth once more, 125 THE VOICE OF THE WIND. "There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit." GRAY'S Letters. OH! many a voice is thine, thou Wind! full many a voice is thine, From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps thou bear'st a sound and sign; A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all thine own, And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind! that gives the answering tone. Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shiver'd helmets lie, And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a clarion in the sky; |