When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee,
Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break,
Did e’er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee?
The mother her little ones, then, may forsake!
Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer—
The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm;
And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer,
And touched with new glory, because of the storm!
[THE UPROOTED ELM.]
Alas! alas! my good old tree,
A fatal change is past on thee!
And now thine aged form I see,
All helpless, lying low:
The rending tempest, in its flight
’Mid darkness of the wintry night,
Hath struck thee, passing in its might,
And felled thee at a blow.
And never more the blooming spring
Shall to thy boughs rich verdure bring,
Or her gay birds, to flit and sing
Where their first plumage grew;
For thou, so long, so fondly made
My eye’s delight, my summer shade,
Here, as a lifeless king, art laid
In state, for all to view.
Thy noble trunk and reverend head,
Defined on that cold, snow-white bed,
And those old arms, so widely spread,
Thy hopelessness declare:
Thy roots, in earth concealed so long—
That struck so deep, with hold so strong,
Upturned with many a broken prong,
Are quivering high in air.
But yester-eve I saw thee stand,
With lofty front, with aspect grand,
Where thou hadst braved the ruthless hand
Of time, and spread, and towered;
And stood the rain, the hail, the blast,
Till more than hundred years had passed:
To fall so suddenly at last,
Forever overpowered!
Yet, while I sadly ponder o’er
What now thou art, and wast before,
Were sighs to rise, and tears to pour,
Like summer winds and rain;
Not all the sighs and drops of grief
Could bring to thee one bud or leaf;
Thou liest so like a stricken chief,
By one swift arrow slain.