Worn pilgrims blessed his grateful shade
Ere Richard led the first crusade,
And maidens led the dance
Where, boy and man, in summer-time,
Sweet Chaucer pondered o'er his rhyme;
And Robin Hood, perchance,
Stole hither to maid Marian,
(And if they did not come, one can
At any rate suppose it);
They met beneath the mistletoe,—
We did the same, and ought to know
The reason why they chose it.
And this was called the traitor's branch,—
Stern Warwick hung six yeomen stanch
Along its mighty fork;
Uncivil wars for them! The fair
Red rose and white still bloom,—but where
Are Lancaster and York?
Right mournfully his leaves he shed
To shroud the graves of England's dead,
By English falchion slain;
And cheerfully, for England's sake,
He sent his kin to sea with Drake,
When Tudor humbled Spain.
A time-worn tree, he could not bring
His heart to screen the merry king,
Or countenance his scandals;—
Then men were measured by their wit,—
And then the mimic statesmen lit
At either end their candles!
While Blake was busy with the Dutch
They gave his poor old arms a crutch:
And thrice four maids and men ate
A meal within his rugged bark,
When Coventry bewitched the park,
And Chatham swayed the senate.
His few remaining boughs were green,
And dappled sunbeams danced between,
Upon the dappled deer,
When, clad in black, a pair were met
To read the Waterloo Gazette,—
They mourned their darling here.
They joined their boy. The tree at last
Lies prone—discoursing of the past,
Some fancy-dreams awaking;
Resigned, though headlong changes come,—
Though nations arm to tuck of drum,
And dynasties are quaking.
Romantic spot! By honest pride
Of eld tradition sanctified;
My pensive vigil keeping,
I feel thy beauty like a spell,
And thoughts, and tender thoughts, upwell,
That fill my heart to weeping.
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