University of Virginia Library

Thou forest lord! whose deathless arms
Full many an age of rolling time
Have mock'd the madness of the storms,
Unfaded in thy shadowy prime
Thou livest still—and still shalt stay,
Tho' the destroying tyrant bow
The temple, and the tower, and lay
The pomp and pride of empires low.
And if thy stately form be riven
And blasted by the fiery levin,
Still dost thou give that giant front,
Undaunted, to the pitiless brunt
Of angry winds, that vainly rave;
And, like the scars by battle graven
Upon the bosoms of the brave,
The tokens of resistless heaven
Deep in thy rugged breast are seen,
The marks of frays that once have been;
The lightning's stroke, the whirlwind's force,
Have marr'd thee in their furious course,
But they have left thee unsubdu'd;
And if they bend thy crest awhile,
Thou dost arise in might renew'd,
Tameless in undiminish'd toil,
Singly against an hostile host
Contending, like th' immortal king,
Who quell'd the Titans' impious boast
With thunder, tho' he stood alone
Defender of his starry throne,
Dashing th' aspiring mountains down,
Dark Ossa, like a powerless thing,
And Pelion with his nodding pines;
Then bound with adamantine chains,
Where the glad sun-light never shines,
The earth-born in eternal pains.
Of many who were born with thee,
Scarce now a thought survives to tell;
War hath ta'en some—their memory
But faintly lives of those who fell:
Even the conqueror's glorious name
That boasts a life beyond the tomb,
Borne on the wings of rushing fame,
May bow before the common doom,
Before the measure of its praise
Hath fill'd thy multitude of days.

And ere the poet's hallow'd star,
Refulgent o'er his voiceless urn,
Glance thro' the gloom of years so far,
Its living fires may cease to burn.
Thy mere existence shall be more
Than others' immortality;
The spirits of the great, who bore
A sway on earth, and still would be
Remember'd, when they are not seen,
Shall die like echoes on the wind,
Nor leave of all that they have been
In living hearts one thrill behind;
Their very names shall be forgot,
Ancient of days! ere thou art not.
The druid's mystic harp, that hung
So long upon thy stormy boughs,
Mute as its master's magic tongue,
Who slumbereth in that deep repose,
No earthly sound shall wake again,
Nor glare of sacrificial fire,
Nor howl of victims in their pain,
Or the weird priestess in her ire,
Hath mingled with th' oblivious dust
Of him who called its spirit forth,
In those prophetic tones which hush'd
The enraptur'd children of the north,
Binding them with a holy fear,
And smiting each enchanted ear
With such a sound as seem'd to raise
The hidden forms of future days:
Sleep on!—no Roman foe alarms
Your rest; and over ye shall wave
A guardian God's protecting arms,
And flowers shall deck your grassy grave!

And he who gazeth on thee now,
Ere long shall lie as low as they;
The daring heart, the intrepid brow,
Not long can feel youth's joyous glow,
The strength of life must soon decay.
A few short years fleet swiftly by,
And rayless is the sparkling eye,
Mute the stern voice of high command,
And still oppression's iron hand;
The lords of earth shall waste away
Beneath the worm, and many a day
Of wintry frost and summer sun,
Ere yet thy number'd hours be done;
For thou art green and flourishing,
The mountain-forest's stately king,
Unshaken as the granite stone
That stands thine everlasting throne.

There was a tower, whose haughty head
Erewhile rose darkly by thy side,
But they are number'd with the dead,
Who rul'd within its place of pride;
For time and overwhelming war
Have crumbled it, and overthrown
Bulwark, and battlement, and bar,
Column, and arch, and sculptur'd stone;
Around thy base are rudely strewn
The tokens of departed power,
The wrecks of unrecorded fame
Lie mouldering in the frequent shower:
But thou art there, the very same
As when those hearts, which now are cold,
First beat in triumph to behold
The shadow of its form, which fell
At distance o'er the darken'd dell.
No more the battle's black array
Shall sternly meet the rising day;
No beacon-fire's disastrous light
Flame fiercely in the perilous night.
Forgotten is that fortress now,
Deserted is the feudal hall,
But here and there the red flowers blow
Upon its bare and broken wall.
And ye may hear the night-wind moan
Thro' shatter'd hearths with moss o'ergrown,
Wild grasses wave above the gate;
And where the trumpets sung at morn,
The tuneless night-bird dwells forlorn,
And the unanswer'd ravens prate,
Till silence is more desolate.
For thou hast heard the clarion's breath
Pour from thy heights its blast of death,
While gathering multitudes replied
Defiance with a shout that hurl'd
Back on their foes the curse of pride,
And bended bows, and flags unfurl'd;
And swiftly from the hollow vale
Their arrowy vengeance glanc'd, like hail,
What time some fearless son of war,
Emerging to the upper air,
Gain'd the arm'd steep's embattled brows,
Thro' angry swords around him waving,
Mid the leagu'd thousands of his foes,
Their fury like a lion braving:
And faster than the summer rain
Stream'd forth the life-blood of the slain,
Whom civil hate and feudal power
Mingled in that tempestuous hour,
Steeping thy sinewy roots, that drew
Fresh vigour from that deadly dew,
And still shall live—tho' monarchs fail;
And those who waged the battle then
Are made the marvel of a tale,
To warm the hearts of future men.
On such a sight did Cambria gaze,
When Freedom on that dismal day
Saw Edward's haughty banners blaze
Triumphant, and the dread array
In the deep vales beneath her gleam,
Then started from her ancient throne,
That mighty song could not redeem
From ruthless hands and hearts of stone.
While ages yield their fleeting breath,
Art thou the only living thing
On earth, which all-consuming death
Blasts not with his destroying wing?
No! thou shalt die!—tho' gloriously
Those proud arms beat the azure air,
Some hour in Time's dark womb shall see
The strength they boast no longer there.
Tho' to thy life, as to thy God's,
Unnumber'd years are as a day,
When He, who is eternal, nods,
Thy mortal strength must pass away.
Unconquer'd Fate, with viewless hand,
Hath mark'd the moment of thy doom,
For He, who could create, hath spann'd
Thy being, and its hour shall come:
Some thunderbolt more dread than all
That ever scath'd thee with their fire,
Arm'd with the force of heaven, shall fall
Upon thee, and thou shalt expire!
Or age, that curbs a giant's might,
Shall bow thee down and fade thy bloom,
The last of all, the bitterest blight
That chills our hearts, except the tomb.
And then thou canst but faintly strive
Against the foes thou hast defied,
Returning spring shall not revive
The beauty of thy summer pride;
And the green earth no more shall sleep
Beneath thy dark and stilly shade,
Where silvery dews were wont to weep,
And the red day-beam never stray'd,
But flow'rets of the tenderest hue,
That live not in the garish noon,
Pale violets of an heavenly blue,
Unfaded by the sultry sun,
Unwearied by the blasts that shook
Thy lofty head, securely throve,
Nor heeded in that grassy nook
The ceaseless wars that raged above.
The revelling elves at noon of night
Shall throng no more beneath thy boughs,
When moon-beams shed a solemn light,
And every star intensely glows;
No verdant canopy shall screen
From view the orgies of their race,
But the blue heaven's unclouded sheen
Shall pierce their secret dwelling-place.
Tho' now the lavrock pours at morn,
Shrin'd in thy leaves, his rapturous lay,
Then shall the meanest songster scorn
To hail thee, as he wings his way.
The troubled eagle, when he flies
Before the lightnings, and the wrath
Of gathering winds and stormy skies,
That darken o'er his cloudy path,
With ruffled breast and angry eye
Shall pass thee, and descend in haste
Amid the sheltering bowers that lie
Far down beneath the rolling blast.
Thine awful voice, that swells on high
Above the rushing of the north,
Above the thunders of the sky,
When midnight hurricanes come forth,
Like some fall'n conqueror's, who bewails
His laurels torn, his humbled fame,
Shall murmur to the passing gales
At once thy glory and thy shame!