Poems (Acton)/The Youth and the Withered Tree
THE YOUTH AND THE WITHERED TREE.
There stood a youth by a withered tree, And he looked on its branches old;And he thought his heart could never be So cheerless and so cold As that withered tree.
So the young reason, so they say;Their feelings cannot pass away: It was not strangeThat he should think the open brow,And the heart that beat so warmly now, Could never change.
Years, stirring years, pass'd o'er his form—Sometimes of dark'ning clouds and storm, Sometimes of joy;But his heart had hardened in that space,And none in the haughty man could trace The gentle boy.
He had won himself a lofty name,And the garland of a warrior's fame Was on his brow; But the joyous soul, the open heart,The thoughts with guile that had no part, Where were they now?
How changed that man so proudly cold,From the gallant youth of bearing bold In days of yore!Did ever pass that time long gone,When he looked the withered tree upon, His memory o'er?
Aye! and his brain with anguish burned,And from the busy world he turned In bitter scorn;When he would silently recallThe heart so prompt to feel for all, He then had borne.
Years still rolled on, when one bright day,Ere Autumn hues had pass'd away For winter snow;When e'en the withered tree looked bright,Beneath the rich and streaming light Of the sunset's glow;
There stood beside its leafless boughAn aged man, with furrowed brow And silv'ry hair. Full many a year had o'er him pass'd,Full many a flower had bloomed since last He had been there.
With the bright and sunny smile of youth,With bounding step and heart of truth, He left it then:A feeble man, by sickness bowed,While whitened was the brow so proud, He came again.
And mournfully he looked aroundUpon the well-remembered ground Of bygone years;He had turned him from the world at last;He had mourned his pride and errors past, With bitter tears.
And now he came to look once more,Ere yet his stay on earth was o'er, Each spot upon;Where in his childhood he had played,Where in his joyous glee he strayed, In years long gone.
But dearer to his memoryWas that old and leafless withered tree Than all beside; For he thought upon the sunny time,When he in all his youth's fresh prime, Each change defied.
And his heart with yearning fondness turnedTo those years when falsehood he had spurned, With proud disdain;And he humbly knelt him down to prayThat the peace he felt in childhood's day Might come again.
And granted was that chastened prayer,Breathed forth in deep repentance there, With bended knee;For gentle was his calm decay,And they laid him, when he pass'd away, 'Neath the Withered Tree.H. A.