Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Willow
THE WILLOW
“Et moi, j’ai aussi été en Arcadie”
My parent stem was nurtured in the soil
Of St. Helena, near the grave of him
Who shook the world in many a battle-broil,
And died a captive where dark waters swim,
In that lone isle of Afric’s subtle coil—
A memory no time or age may dim.
Torn from that ever memorable tree,
I was borne long and weary miles away,
Across a mighty waste of restless sea,
To be enrooted in the honored clay
That guards the noblest son of Liberty
Asleep, awaiting the eternal day.
So, after mingling with heroic dust—
Napoleon, Washington—I came at last
To find a final resting place, I trust;
Where the Savannah’s tawny tide glides past
A city venerable and august—
In a glad garden I was fondly cast.
I bravely grew, wooed by a Southern sun,
A graceful tree, with opulence of tress.
The vital sap through all my fibers spun,
And dainty damsels gave me their caress.
A lovely matron all my senses won,
And so I longed her happy home to bless.
Anon, the winter stripped me of my leaves,
Until I stood disheveled and forlorn;
But still my tropic heart clung to the eaves
Of that dear household, in the night and morn.
Soon the lord Spring, who blesses and reprieves,
Poured emerald largess o’er my features shorn.
How have I thrilled when they I loved were gay,
In the warm sunshine and the alert breeze!
When round the festal board wit ruled the day
And wisdom was espoused to pleasantries.
How have I wished such happiness could stay,
Unsmitten always with sad memories!
Alas! there came a dread, dissolving scene
To snap the jocund circle of my friends!
So, one by one, they fled all things terrene,
To seek the mystic shore that never ends—
Where Mortal must on th’ Immortal lean,
Where the true Ideal with the Real blends.
The reverend grandsire left my grateful shade
And baby eyes beheld my form no more;
The dazzling lawyer in the sod was laid;
The keen preceptor fell, with all his lore;
The brilliant master slumbers in the glade—
Not lost, but in due meekness gone before.
Still lingers my sweet matron, gravely bright,
With stalwart sons and daughters tall and grand.
They stand between her and the ghosts who might
Become a mournful, melancholy band.
I watch her, when the hours are aflight,
Her gaze uplifted to the shining strand!
Perchance, you think a willow has no tongue,
No sentient touch, no article of speech,
No power to soothe the heart, in anguish wrung,
No message to impart or moral teach.
But lo! a poet all my dreams has sung,
And who that sorcery will dare impeach?