University of Virginia Library

“Shade me, oh! shade me!”—the streamlet said
To the tall and stately Sycamore;
“Over my bosom thy branches spread,
Till the fiery noontide heat is o'er,
And I'll promise you a guerdon meet
For such true service, friendly tree;
A guerdon, simple, but passing sweet—
Bend low—I'll whisper what it shall be;
I'll sing you a song, I'll sing you a song,
That shall fill the silence all night long;
A song, whose music shall seem to you
As the fanning wind and the dropping dew;
A song that shall hush you to slumber deep,
Then weave its witchery through your sleep;
That shall bathe as with freshness of early showers
Each leaf o'ertasked by the sunny hours;
That shall win all wandering odours up
From purple bell and from golden cup,
To float and languish your boughs among—
All this, I'll promise you in my song,
All this and more,
O Sycamore,
For your shade till the noontide heat is o'er.”
Then the Sycamore broad his leaves unfurled
O'er the little stream,
For pride hath no place in Nature's world,
As in ours, I deem.
No place at all—on the giant height
Of the royal mountain, gay and bright
Grow the little flowers, no whit afraid;
And the mountain, in his storms arrayed,
Shelters and shields them as best he can
From the avalanche and the hurricane.
Pride! mark the idle zephyrs play
With the monarch oak's fresh budding spray;
Frolicking, flutt'ring, round leaf and stem—
And the oak, no scorn hath he for them,
But frolicking, fluttering too, I wis,
Giveth whisper for whisper and kiss for kiss.
Pride! wateh the stream on its way to ocean
Gliding along with a merry motion,
How it gurgles and eddies, in pure delight,
Round the cup-lily's blossoms, broad and white,
But a little further, perchance you'll see
Its current laving as lovingly
The poor little daisy, meekest of all,
That peeping forth from its grassy thrall,
Bends down its small sweet face to see
What it is that murmurs so tenderly.
Pride! on man only that curse is hurled—
There is no such thing in Nature's world!

So the Sycamore deigned, though stately and tall,
To shield from the sunbeams, one and all
The stream at its foot, till the noontide's reign
Was ended, and over wood and plain
The cool eve-shadows fell soft again.
And the little brook, as wood-folks tell,
Its plighted promise fulfilled so well,
That at dawn, when the season of dreams was past,
Of all the trees in that forest vast
The Sycamore woke from sleep the last.
Woke with a sigh too, that clearly meant
A feeling of inward discontent
At the change, from wonder and witchery,
From honey-dew, odours and harmony,
To the common earth and the common sky.
And I've heard the learned in leafy lore
Declare of all sounds in the Sycamore,
That this is their burden and this their strain—
“Sing me, oh sing me that song again!”