University of Virginia Library

THE LEGEND OF THE OLD WHITE THORN.

It was a fine old Hawthorn tree
Which cast its grateful shade,
Across the brook, which bright and free
Along the valley stray'd.
There was a bench beneath the tree,
Adorn'd with sculpture rare;
But none could tell its history,
Or who had plac'd it there.
And yet it seem'd that to that seat
A magic influence drew,
The heavy heart, and weary feet,
With the descending dew.
Oh, many a tender tale of love,
Was whisper'd in that shade,
And buds of passion interwove,
Ah! that such wreaths should fade.
Young friendship's bright and holy bands
Were braided, 'neath that tree,
It was a place for clasping hands,
And mingling sympathy.
Oft with belov'd companions there,
I sat in childhood's hours,
Broidering hope's robe of gossamer,
With most delightful flowers.
In womanhood I came again,
With chill'd and weary breast,
And spirit school'd to care, and pain,
And long estrang'd from rest,
And so I sought the old White Thorn,
The evening star beneath,
To weep the buds untimely torn,
From hope's bright rainbow wreath.
To muse of all the sweet and fair,
Bright eye'd, and full of youth,
Whose hearts and hands had mingled there,
With simple vows of truth.
Then as I wander'd sad and lone,
Adown the narrow dell,
I almost heard each gentle tone,
In childhood lov'd so well.
The lost, the chang'd, were there again,
And many a treasur'd word,
Oh, sweeter than the spring bird's strain,
The chords of memory stirr'd.
I paus'd—improvement's iron march,
Its footprint there had made;
A lofty bridge with massive arch,
Across the dell was laid;
A small stump, to its centre cleft,
Told where the thorn tree stood;
And of that honour'd bench was left
One mouldering piece of wood,
Oh, long and bitterly I wept,
Low-seated on the ground,
Till down the dell the shadows crept,
And dew drops gather'd round.
For like a wreath of living flowers
Twin'd round that honour'd tree,
The memory of all pleasant hours,
Had ever been to me.
At length there woke a long deep sigh,
Like winds green leaves among;
It touch'd my soul like melody
Remember'd well and long.
And then a voice low-toned and clear,
Blent with that airy tone,
Such spirit voice, as spirits hear,
By wood paths dim and lone.
Oh, soft, and sweet, and thrillingly,
It told its simple tale,
And thus in wild sweet harmony,
Hymn'd forth its pensive wail.
The shadows of the buried past—
They come at memory's call,
And kindly solace to the last,
The weariest heart of all.
Bright shades of hope, of joy, and love,
Of scenes, and seasons gone,
Since first the melting voice of love
Awoke the old White Thorn.
The old White Thorn, two hundred years,
The pride of this lone spot,
And now, (Oh, bless thy flowing tears)
By all but thee forgot.
Here feelings beautiful and deep
Have pour'd their treasures dear,
And bitterer tears than thou canst weep,
Have fall'n like rain drops here.
Young hearts have writh'd beneath this tree,
With anguish strong and wild,
And here was wrought the destiny,
Of nature's loveliest child.
'Twas when this richly cultur'd scene
Where pleasant dwellings stand,
And cities crowd with dazzling sheen
By stream, or ocean strand,
Where Science's august halls are trod
By throngs of eager feet;
Where in the hallow'd courts of God,
The humble-hearted meet;
Where art has built his myriad domes,
And plies his magic toil;
And cheerful Agriculture comes
Each morn to bless the soil,
When all this scene from sea to sea,
Where e'er the sun looks down,
Was clad in nature's fair array,
And wore her leafy crown,
Her emerald crown of forest leaves
Inwreath'd with blossom'd stems,
And which at morn she interweaves,
With myriad flashing gems.
And here her own wild children dwelt,
The beautiful and free;
The fearless and the fleet, who felt
Their being ecstasy.
And here were songs, and radiant wings,
For nature's God has given
Bright plumes to all melodious things,
That they may fly toward heaven.
And underneath the living shade
High-arch'd from tree to tree,
The dusky featur'd hunter stray'd,
With foot and spirit free.
His soul was like his native land,
Majestic, wild, and vast;
Its very shadow darkly grand
O'er wastes of verdure cast.
His passions, like the mountain wind,
Resistless, fierce, and sure;
And kindly feelings in his mind,
Like fountains deep and pure.
Oh, hush the lay. I must not sing,
For echo haunts the vale.
The Æolean's fitful murmuring
Suits best such passion tale.