LINES,
Suggested by reading an account of the very ancient Willow which still stands in what were once the gardens of Semiramis, at Babylon, with which it is supposed to have been coeval.
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BY MRS. E. L. CUSHING.
———
Oh, solitary tree!
Living memento of the mighty Past!
Strange, dreamy images the mind o’ercast,
As dwell its thoughts on thee.
Where roved Semiramis
Thou still doth stand—perchance her foot she staid
Beneath thy silvery boughs—in their deep shade
To woo the zephyr’s kiss.
There now, thou standest lone;
And as the winds thine ancient branches sway,
Thou dost respond to their light mirthful play,
With melancholy moan.
[[3]]The wandering Arab hears,
And deems in thee unearthly spirits dwell;
Then hastes with flying foot the tale to tell,
Of his dark doubts and fears.
Ancient, mysterious tree!
What secrets deep lie hidden in thy breast?
’Twere strange, indeed, if aught could be at rest,
Knowing what’s known to thee.
Thou hast outlived thy race!
Lone dweller, thou, amid decay and death,
Where e’en the violet, with her perfumed breath,
No eye may ever trace.
Amid thy foliage dim
The wild bee murmurs not, nor e’er is heard,
’Mong thy pale folded leaves, the chant of bird,
Warbling her vesper hymn.
Not so, oh mournful tree!
When in their glory shone those gardens bright,
And plants of every clime, full fair to sight,
Smiled gayly there with thee.
Then thou did’st proudly wave
Thy graceful boughs above the queenly head
Of fair Semiramis, and soft dews shed,
Her beauteous brow to lave.
While at thy feet unrolled,
Lay Shinar’s plain, in whose bright midst there shone
The hundred gates of mighty Babylon—
Her towers and domes of gold!
Where are her glories now—
Her valiant kings—and he who reared yon tower
To brave the heavens? Spent is their little hour!
Oh, tree! why lingerest thou?
There thou hast stood and seen
Their doom fulfilled—hast seen gray ruin sit
In their bright halls, and marked the dark bat flit
Where song and dance have been.
Hoary and voiceless tree!
Could’st thou find human utterance, to impart
All the bright secrets treasured in thy heart—
Dark would the history be!
Well might’st thou moralize
On worldly hopes—thou that canst boast a span,
Ne’er in Time’s earliest records reached by man—
The mighty, nor the wise.
Briefer than thine, oh tree!
Earth’s glories are; for thou hast seen them pass,
Age after age, as in a magic glass—
Yet change comes not to thee.
Still may Time pass thee by,
Untouched, unscathed—sparing thee still to bind
Us to the Past—thou that art close entwined
With its strange history.
| [3] | The creaking sound made by the branches of this aged willow, when moved by the wind, is believed by the superstitious Arabs to proceed from spirits dwelling among its foliage; and the fact that neither birds or insects ever frequent the tree, and that no flowers thrive in its vicinity, confirms them in their credulous belief. |