The old trees remained as they were, and London, for so the city was called at length, increased in might and power; the swarming population could no longer be contained within its walls, and the walls were broken down in consequence. Villages were built in places where, but a few years before, was a dense growth of underwood, with high trees that cast their lengthened shadows on the ground. Gradually the city enlarged her bounds, and those groups of houses which had been called villages, and which stood in the midst of pleasant fields, well-watered and reclaimed from the forest, were reached by lines of streets, and so encroaching were they, that it was thought advisable to retain some portion of the ancient forest as a royal park, both for exercise and ornament. If the trees of the forest could have spoken, they would have rejoiced at this, but none more than the old trees, my own memorial trees, these relics of past ages; though now beginning to decay, long tufts of lichens having struck their roots into the rough bark, and many of their noblest branches having been long since broken by fierce winds, or rovers of the forest. They nearly stood alone, for very few remained of those which had grown here, when all around was one wide forest, one intermingling of shadowing boughs from sea to sea, or spaces of waste land, untilled and tenantless. The old Roman road, which had been raised with so much cost and care, soon fell to decay; its materials were carried off, and the green sward rapidly extended over that portion of it which passed through Hyde Park and St. James’s Park. Those who like to tread where the Romans trod, may yet walk on a small portion of their ancient route, in the public road leading to Westminster Abbey, on the side nearest the turnpike.
The retaining part of the old forest was a desirable measure, for the advance of London towards this quarter, was alone restrained by the prescribed boundaries; and now the windows of her crowding houses look upon the trees and grass, and the ceaseless hum of human voices, which she sends forth from all her hundred gates, is heard continually, with the mingled sound of rolling carriages, of heavy waggons, and the trampling of horses’ feet. Magnificent equipages drive along the smoothly gravelled roads, with which the modern park that extends around the old tree is intersected. Riders on steeds, such as the ancient Britons saw not, and even the polished Romans could hardly have imagined, pass and repass among the trees, and gaily attired pedestrians walk beneath their shade. Strange contrast to what has been! The mental eye, back glancing through the vista of long ages, still loves to dwell on the loneliness and the grandeur, on the gloom and depth of the wide forest: it mourns over the ages and the generations that have passed away, since the memorial trees emerged from their cradle in the earth. Some hand might inscribe on their rough bark that all is vanity, that the glorious earth was not designed to be thus made a charnel-house; but, among those who pass the aged trees, few would stop their progress, or their discourse, to read the inscription; and, among those who read, fewer, perhaps, would desire that it should be otherwise.
Hatfield Oak.
[Queen Elizabeth is said to have been seated beneath the shade of Hatfield Oak when she received intelligence of the death of her sister Mary.]
| How dim and indistinct the silent scene! O’er groves and valleys sleeping mists are spread, Like a soft silvery mantle; while the stream, Scarce heard to flow, steals on its pebbly bed; Nor e’en a ripple wakes the silence round, As if it flowed, perchance, through some enchanted ground. But O, the gorgeous tint, the dazzling glow In the clear west; for scarce the sun is gone! That glowing tint doth yet a radiance throw On the hill-top, while, aye, each old grey stone Glitters like diamonds ’mid the mountain heath, While fades, in deep’ning gloom, the sleeping vale beneath. One lonely spot, which oft, in solemn mood, Men have gazed on in ages long gone by, Where stands that relic of the good green wood, The aged oak, prompting a tear or sigh; That lonely spot gleams o’er the misty scene, Catching the splendour of the dazzling sheen. And, aye, the lichens that have fixed deep Their tiny roots within the furrowed bough; And one small flower, which still her vigils keep, The blue forget-me-not, are glowing now, In characters, methinks, of living flame, Seeming to print the old oak’s massy frame. It looks as if a bright and sudden beam, Within that oak, broke forth with fervid ray, Tinting its old boughs with a golden gleam, Bright as the deep glow of the parting day; Tempting the passer-by to linger still, Amid the deep’ning gloom that broods o’er dale and hill. Ah! linger still, nor fear the chill night-wind; It comes not yet, for scarce the sun is gone! Each living emblem, speaking to the mind, May counsel well, and cheer, if reft and lone, Thy sad thoughts, earthward bend, giving but little heed To signs of mercy near, waiting each hour of need. Men may learn from them, be it joy or pain, That bids the heart its wonted calm forego, Sunbeams, or showers, loud wind, or driving rain, The morning hoar frost, or the dazzling snow, The small bird, journeying through the pathless skies, May win dull thought, from earthly care to rise. It might be, that in such a glowing hour, When shone the old oak, as with living flame, While anxious thoughts within her breast had power, Forth from yon aged hall[39] a lady came To meet the freshness of the evening breeze, Viewless, yet rustling still among the trees. Oh! there were hearts within that stately hall, Though ruined now, that beat with high alarm, And champing steeds, and warders waiting all To guard, if need might be, from gathering harm, And cautious looks, and voices speaking low, As if they feared an hour of coming woe. Yes, life or death, eternity or time, Waited the passing of that anxious day; A throne, a prison, much perchance of crime, Should statesmen battle, each in stern array; Should death steal onward through a palace gate, Warning his victim from her hall of state. The mind back glancing through long ages past, E’en to the changes in that fitful scene, Calls forth from out the dim, the lone, the vast, One act to gaze on, noting what hath been In dreamy life; though all we now descry Seems as a mournful vision sweeping by. Look then on her, for whom no evening gleam, Nor soft wind rustling in the young green trees, Can soothe the wasting grief—the fever’d dream— The wandering thought, finding but little ease; For each fond hope from the sad heart is flown, Like leaves by autumn winds, all sear’d and gone. Her hall is lonely now, her throne of state Strangers may gaze at; one lone couch of pain Holdeth her now, and pale care seems to wait Beside that couch, despite the weeping train Who vainly seek, with fond officious zeal, To soothe the rankling grief they may not heal. Through the dim oriel streams that sunny glow Which tints the old oak with its parting beam And one last flush gleams on the cold, damp brow Whence life is ebbing, like a fitful dream,— Too soon for those whom anxious boding fill, Her weeping train of ladies, watching still. Why watch ye now? Seven thunders would not wake That dreaded one—her load of life laid down. Her sleep is sound. Her stern heart may not ache, Nor throb the brow that wore a joyless crown; An instant past a queen. For love or hate, She cares not now; waiting at mercy’s gate. Hark to swift footsteps on the dewy grass, ’Mid the dim twilight, for the flush is gone That lit yon death-couch. Hasting on they pass To hail, as queen, the lone and captive one. Captive, and yet a queen! one moment more Shall give to her the crown that anxious Mary wore. |