University of Virginia Library

Afar in the woods of Winter-burn,
Beyond the slopes of feathery fern;
Beyond the lake, and beyond the fen,
Down in a wild and sylvan glen,
In the very heart of Winter-burn wood;
Last summer an ivy-bush there stood,
As strong as an oak, as thick as a yew,
This ivy-bush in the forest grew:
Let us go down this day and see
If in Winter-burn still grows this tree.

Now we are here:—the words I spoke
Were not, ye see, an idle joke!
Stem, branch, and root, what think ye all
Of this ivy-bush, so broad and tall?
Many and many a year I wis,
The tree has throve ere it grew to this!
Many a year has tried its speed,
Since this old bush was an ivy-seed;
And the woodman's children that were then,
Long years ago were ancient men,
And now no more on earth are seen;
But the ivy-bush is hale and green,
And ere it sinks in slow decay,
Many years to come will have passed away.

All round about 'mong its twisting boughs
There's many an owl doth snugly house,
Warm feathered o'er, yet none can see
How they winking sit in the ivy-tree,
For the leaves are thick as they can be.
But at fall of night, when the stars come out,
The old owls begin to move about;
And the ivy-bush, like a busy hive,
Within its leaves is all alive;
And were you here you would declare,
That the very bush began to stare,
For in the dusk of leaves dark-green,
The owl-eyes look out fixed and keen;
North and south, and round about,
East and west the eyes look out.
And anon is heard afar and nigh
How the ivy-bush sends forth a cry,
A cry so long, a cry so wild,
That it wakes, almost, the cradled child;
And the coach that comes with its peopled load,
Man, woman and babe, up the hilly road,
They hear in amaze the sudden hoot
That shakes the old bush, branch and root,
And the caped-up coachman, then says he,
“In Winter-burn there grows a tree,
And in this tree more owls abide
Than in all Winter-burn beside;
And every night as we climb this brow,
The owls hoot out as they're hooting now!”
And when they hoot and when they shout,
'Tis woe to the wood-mice all about,
And when the fires of their eyes appear,
The weak little birds they quake for fear,
For they know that the owls, with a fierce delight,
Riot and feast, like lords, at night.

Oh bush, of ivy-trees the prime,
Men find thee out at winter time,
From the distant town through frost and snow
To the woods of Winter-burn they go;
And if care were killed by an ivy-bough,
What a killer of care, old tree, wert thou!
And high in the hall, with laughter merry,
They hang thy twigs with their powdered berry;
And the red-gemmed holly they mix also,
With the spectral branches of misseltoe.
Rare old tree! and the cottage small
Is decked as well as the baron's hall,
For the children's hands are busy and fain
To dress up the little window-pane,
And set in the chinks of the roof-tree wood
The holly and ivy, green and good.

'Twere well for us, thou rare old tree,
Could we gladden the human heart like thee;
Like thee and the holly, that thus make gay
The lowliest cot for a winter's day!