Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch With lays, historical and romantic. By Charles Swain |
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FOREST TREES. |
 | Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch |  |
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FOREST TREES.
“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods.”
Byron.
Byron.
Ye trees, ye forest trees,
In beauty mantled by the touch of God—
Ye hand-marks of his love—high monuments
Of his eternal power—bulwarks of Time—
Great archetypes of Nature's majesty!—
That to the sun-smile of the summer, lift
Your wreathed branches—green and beautiful,
And strong, as when the living breath of God
First brought you forth—ye trees—ye forest trees!
Imagination spreads her hundred wings,
From desert coast to alpine solitude,
And fleet as light pursues her devious track;
But whither may she speed and find Thee not,
Thou great first cause—Supreme, Almighty Lord!—
The wilderness is vocal with thy name—
The solitudes are conscious of their God!
In beauty mantled by the touch of God—
Ye hand-marks of his love—high monuments
Of his eternal power—bulwarks of Time—
Great archetypes of Nature's majesty!—
That to the sun-smile of the summer, lift
Your wreathed branches—green and beautiful,
And strong, as when the living breath of God
First brought you forth—ye trees—ye forest trees!
175
From desert coast to alpine solitude,
And fleet as light pursues her devious track;
But whither may she speed and find Thee not,
Thou great first cause—Supreme, Almighty Lord!—
The wilderness is vocal with thy name—
The solitudes are conscious of their God!
Glory of Egypt and the Temple's pride!—
Thou Titan of the woods—whose stately form
Assumes an air of immortality—
Cedar of Lebanon, begin the theme:
The gusts of centuries dash o'er thy head—
The thunders strike thy foot—yet all unharmed
Thou stand'st superior to the elements,
Firm in thine own unmatched magnificence;—
And lift'st thy branches in triumphal song,
A song of praise and power!—thy regal boughs,
As eastern velvet—smooth, luxurious, soft;
Thy tufted leaves, low drooping—like a veil—
Glossy and green, and delicately curved,
Gracing the vigour of their parent stem,
Like Beauty round the neck of Hercules!
Thou Titan of the woods—whose stately form
Assumes an air of immortality—
Cedar of Lebanon, begin the theme:
The gusts of centuries dash o'er thy head—
The thunders strike thy foot—yet all unharmed
Thou stand'st superior to the elements,
Firm in thine own unmatched magnificence;—
And lift'st thy branches in triumphal song,
A song of praise and power!—thy regal boughs,
As eastern velvet—smooth, luxurious, soft;
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Glossy and green, and delicately curved,
Gracing the vigour of their parent stem,
Like Beauty round the neck of Hercules!
Proud tree, from out whose glorious heart were formed
Temples and palaces and statues vast;
And ships, whose mighty prows defied the blast,
Still be thy presence honoured, and thy name
A stirring record to all after-time;
A chronicle of greatness—desolate!
Temples and palaces and statues vast;
And ships, whose mighty prows defied the blast,
Still be thy presence honoured, and thy name
A stirring record to all after-time;
A chronicle of greatness—desolate!
Linger the mountain waters on their track,
Charmed by thy modest beauty—weeping Birch—
Lone Widow of the Woods—sad monitress—
Bending like Piety before the shrine
Of God-born Nature!—thou divinest tree!—
Well may the waters linger 'neath thy glance,
And kiss thy pendent tresses with cool lips,
And float around thee in perpetual song!
Charmed by thy modest beauty—weeping Birch—
Lone Widow of the Woods—sad monitress—
Bending like Piety before the shrine
Of God-born Nature!—thou divinest tree!—
Well may the waters linger 'neath thy glance,
And kiss thy pendent tresses with cool lips,
And float around thee in perpetual song!
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And thou,
That midst the mountains of Calabria tow'rst
Thy hundred heads, thy continent of leaves,
Thou model of the picturesque, that won
The soul of him whose genius lit the world
With visions of the wonderful and grand!—
Pride of Salvator Rosa—whose high name
Evokes a sound familiar to our ears,
And gladsome to our thoughts; brave Chesnut tree!—
The sun-rise sheds its glory on thy leaves,
And sun-set robes thee still; on every shore
Fertile or barren art thou resident;
The hunted stag beneath thy covert hides—
And the gaunt wolf and spotted panther howl
Through the long watch of night, scared by the gleam
Of spectral moonlight on thy forked crest!
That midst the mountains of Calabria tow'rst
Thy hundred heads, thy continent of leaves,
Thou model of the picturesque, that won
The soul of him whose genius lit the world
With visions of the wonderful and grand!—
Pride of Salvator Rosa—whose high name
Evokes a sound familiar to our ears,
And gladsome to our thoughts; brave Chesnut tree!—
The sun-rise sheds its glory on thy leaves,
And sun-set robes thee still; on every shore
Fertile or barren art thou resident;
The hunted stag beneath thy covert hides—
And the gaunt wolf and spotted panther howl
Through the long watch of night, scared by the gleam
Of spectral moonlight on thy forked crest!
Come forth, Spring calls thee forth, beautiful Elm,—
Thy purple blossoms ope the first to hail
The April sun-beam, and thy foliage, light
As ocean spray—swells first to wreath the air:—
Come forth, Spring calls thee forth, beautiful Elm—
Thou and thy sister, the luxuriant Larch—
The Lady of the Grove!—whose taper boughs
Robed in their proud prosperity of leaves,
O'ertop the shadowy level of the woods
Like a rich obelisk of beryl!—Rise!
Come forth! and glad the birds—and glad the sun—
And fill the heart with meditative joy!
Thy purple blossoms ope the first to hail
The April sun-beam, and thy foliage, light
As ocean spray—swells first to wreath the air:—
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Thou and thy sister, the luxuriant Larch—
The Lady of the Grove!—whose taper boughs
Robed in their proud prosperity of leaves,
O'ertop the shadowy level of the woods
Like a rich obelisk of beryl!—Rise!
Come forth! and glad the birds—and glad the sun—
And fill the heart with meditative joy!
And ever be thou consecrate—dark Yew,
Whose shadow, like a midnight spectre, stands
Close by the mouldering chancel, whose drear sigh
Falls like the voice of graves—low, startling, deep:
Whose branches through the long, cold, wintry night,
Spread like dim shrouds—precursors of the tomb!
Oh! ever be thou consecrate—thou wert
A sacred symbol in the olden days;
And art a moral, and shalt be a guide
To future ages, when the living crowd
Have glittered—smiled—exulted—and decayed!
Whose shadow, like a midnight spectre, stands
Close by the mouldering chancel, whose drear sigh
Falls like the voice of graves—low, startling, deep:
Whose branches through the long, cold, wintry night,
Spread like dim shrouds—precursors of the tomb!
Oh! ever be thou consecrate—thou wert
A sacred symbol in the olden days;
And art a moral, and shalt be a guide
To future ages, when the living crowd
Have glittered—smiled—exulted—and decayed!
| Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch | |