 | Later Lays and Lyrics |  |
23
THE MARKHAM ELM.
I.
Like an old warrior with his helm,Decked grandly with a crest of green,
A thousand years has stood yon Elm,
Chief glory of the scene!
II.
What tales, if its old trunk could talk,Would fall upon the listening ear,
Of the wild wolf upon his walk,
The red-man with his spear.
III.
It towered the giant of the wood,In a rich robe of emerald drest,
When launched upon the ocean flood,
Columbus sought the west.
IV.
It braved old winter's rudest shockWhen the storm-fiends their trumpets blew,
When on stern Plymouth's hallowed rock
Landed the May-Flower's crew.
V.
It was the forest's pride, when cameThe Norsemen, borne grey ocean o'er,
And the Round Tower, long known to fame,
Built on New England's shore,
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VI.
Behemoth, in its mighty shade,Has grazed, perchance, and couched him down;
His nest, the forest Eagle made,
Within its royal crown.
VII.
Beneath its old protecting boughs,Perchance have Indian lovers met
To hold sweet tryst, and pledge their vows
To maids with locks of jet.
VIII.
Its branches have the Panther screened,Rough with the hues, and moss of age;
Chiefs round its Titan trunk convened,
Have met in council sage.
IX.
It stands alone;—the river nearBreaks, with sad whisper on the shore,
As if its waters longed to hear
The Indian's voice once more.
X.
Like an old tribeless sachem now,It stands dejected and alone,
And the wind, lifting up its bough,
Gives out a mournful moan.
XI.
Within its hollow trunk are seenThe smoky, blackened marks of fire,
Though in its top of loving green
The wind still tunes its lyre.
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XII.
And worse than Vandal, thou, who marredIts bark with villainy malign;—
The Malediction of the Bard
Forevermore be thine!
This noble tree, stands on Markham Flats, near the dividing line between Avon and Rush. It is forty feet in circumference, and before it was shorn, by time, of its old protecting boughs, it shadowed an acre of ground. It was celebrated in Indian tradition, and under its capacious canopy Chief, Sage, and Warrior, met in the old time. Some wretch, who little regards what is venerable and historic, kindled a fire in its hollow boll. May the curse of the poet, and the malediction of God, rest on him forevermore!
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