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89
THE OLD ELM.
Where the bank of the river slopes away,
And the road runs down to Harley bay,
(A sheet of glass through the summer day,)
The Old Elm stands
With its knotted limbs,
Waving their leaves in the ocean breeze,
The pomp and pride of the village trees.
And the road runs down to Harley bay,
(A sheet of glass through the summer day,)
The Old Elm stands
With its knotted limbs,
Waving their leaves in the ocean breeze,
The pomp and pride of the village trees.
'T is a brave old tree, though its trunk is dark,
With a mossy beard, and a wrinkled bark;
And they say sometimes that the early lark
And the swallow build
Their nests in the boughs,
Where the birds can peep at the azure sky,
Rocking about in their cradles high.
With a mossy beard, and a wrinkled bark;
And they say sometimes that the early lark
And the swallow build
Their nests in the boughs,
Where the birds can peep at the azure sky,
Rocking about in their cradles high.
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In the sunny Spring, and the frosty Fall,
When the schoolboys round are playing ball,
They run to the edge o' th' garden wall,
(Where the peach-trees stand
And the currants grow,)
And breathless, sly, with a shout of glee,
Back to their base, the glorious Tree!
When the schoolboys round are playing ball,
They run to the edge o' th' garden wall,
(Where the peach-trees stand
And the currants grow,)
And breathless, sly, with a shout of glee,
Back to their base, the glorious Tree!
And truants climb in the emerald spray,
Up to the top where the swallows lay,
Filching their eggs from day to day;
They wave their caps
At the screaming birds,
And drop, while the boughs are cracking round,
Scratched and bruised, on the stony ground.
Up to the top where the swallows lay,
Filching their eggs from day to day;
They wave their caps
At the screaming birds,
And drop, while the boughs are cracking round,
Scratched and bruised, on the stony ground.
When the sky is bright with the noontide beam,
And the cattle wade in the neighboring stream,
The wagoner, driving his heavy team,
In a cloud of dust,
To the market town,
Turns from the road, an hour delayed,
To rest and dream in the grateful shade.
And the cattle wade in the neighboring stream,
The wagoner, driving his heavy team,
In a cloud of dust,
To the market town,
Turns from the road, an hour delayed,
To rest and dream in the grateful shade.
Summer has gone with its bloom and sheen,
And sober Autumn invests the scene,
The Old Elm doffs its robe of green,
And dresses in state
Like a herald proud,
Shedding the leaves from his giant palms,
Autumn's largesse, and lavish alms!
And sober Autumn invests the scene,
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And dresses in state
Like a herald proud,
Shedding the leaves from his giant palms,
Autumn's largesse, and lavish alms!
Alas! I am like the fading tree,
And scatter my foliage fast and free,
Illuminate leaves of Poesy;
A bountiful alms
Of golden thought,
Soon to be swept, by a solemn blast,
Away to the dead and wasted Past!
And scatter my foliage fast and free,
Illuminate leaves of Poesy;
A bountiful alms
Of golden thought,
Soon to be swept, by a solemn blast,
Away to the dead and wasted Past!
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