University of Virginia Library

THE ELMS OF OLD TRINITY.

Shame on the ruthless hands that tore away
The venerable elms, whose graceful domes
Of lofty verdure canopied these graves!
Their overarching limbs, through which the sun
Flickered with chastened ray, spread like a shield,
By Nature interposed to guard the dead;
And waved in dalliance with the fitful wind,
Or with it lapsed to monumental calm.
What cenotaph that human skill may rear
Can with their living symmetry compare?
What tinted window with their emerald?
What roof with their arcade of trailing leaves?
When Spring renewed her miracle, and clad
The naked branches in their June array—
Their life's revival, to the trusting soul,
Prophetic breathed of immortality.
Echoes of prayer, the jubilant refrain
Of choral anthem, and the organ's peal,
Blent with their murmur in the sultry air,
While in their verdant depths the locust trilled,
And on their sprays blithe swung the yellow bird.
Their grateful umbrage then benignly screened
The silent church-yard from the noisy street;
Their roots were twined around the mould'ring forms
Laid long ago beside the ancient fane,
To exiled worshippers the more endeared
Because of these majestic trees that wore
A guise familiar to their childhood's home.
Faith's pioneers and Freedom's martyrs slept
Beneath their shade; and under their old boughs
The wise and brave of generations past
Walked every Sabbath to the house of God.
As grief, by time subdued, forgot to weep,
Still fell their dewy tears; frost turned to gold
The leafy fringes of their drooping pall,
With every breeze a requiem they sighed;
In wreaths fantastic swayed above their tops
The mists of ocean, like funereal plumes;
While round their hoary trunk the gray moss crept,
And softly marked the transit of the years.
Of old the Church was warder of the tomb,
Her ban restrained the hand of sacrilege,
Her shrines were trophies of the saintly dead;
And pagan consecration kept the groves
Serene and sacred; Reverence is gone,
Her haunts laid waste; not life and love alone,
Bereft of fond seclusion, grow profane,
But the last home of poor mortality.
Memory's tender plea, nor beauty's charm,
Nor the long vigils of these sylvan kings
Could awe the spoiler; vanished, like a dream
Of grace and grandeur, are the stately elms,
That cheerful shelter gave the camp of death,
And solace to the hearts that mourn their fall.