Poems (Follen)/The Elm and Blasted Tree
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THE ELM AND BLASTED TREE.
The lengthening shades and glowing west
Proclaimed the hour I loved the best;
When tempted forth to feel the air,
And join in nature's evening prayer,
With calm delight, I silent strayed
To where an elmtree's graceful shade,
With invitation kind and sweet,
Seemed to present a verdant seat.
There, seated on the fragrant ground,
I listened to each passing sound.
A little way before me stood
A blasted tree, whose barren wood
Presented one unvarying gray,
Save a sweet vine that wound its way
Around the melancholy tree.
Like a faint smile it seemed to me,
Upon the visage of despair,
Which fancy had awakened there,
That a sad beauty may impart,
But comes not from the stricken heart.
While, lost in deep and mournful thought,
I mused upon the truth it taught,
Methought the elm in words like these,
Which seemed to float upon the breeze,
The solitary tree addressed.
And thus its own light heart expressed:—
"Alas! poor, miserable tree,
How often I have pitied thee,
And wondered why our master left
Thee mournful here, of leaves bereft;
Why far away he has not borne
Thy faded form, so tempest torn;
Why, still his powerful arm should spare
Thy sapless trunk, and branches bare.
See, all but thou are verdant here;
I shudder at thy aspect drear.
Sad sigh the winds that o'er thee blow,
And wildly sing the song of wo.
But, as for thee, sweet, laughing vine,
That round that withered trunk dost twine,
Why art thou wedded to despair?
For thou art young, and gay, and fair.
O, come to my supporting arms;
Fondly I '11 cherish all thy charms;
And leave that mournful, blasted tree,
And come, sweet vine, O, come to me."
And now, methought, with saddest moan,
In sweet, though melancholy tone.
The desolated tree replied,
While, softly sad, the breezes sighed:—
"'T is true, my beauty all has fled;
True, the destroyer, o'er my head
Has passed, and all my joys are dead.
My leafless branches, it is true,
No joyous spring shall e'er renew,
By lightning and by tempest riven;
But, know the stroke was sent from heaven.
The power that stripped my branches bare,
Still makes me his peculiar care;
Still leaves me here with kind design,
To make his power and goodness shine;
My faded form to teach e'en thee,
What thou, vain elm, must one day be;
That thou may est learn he can resume
Our vigor and our youthful bloom.
His sun still on me warmly glows;
And round my form some radiance throws:
He bade this youthful, lovely vine
Around my sapless trunk entwine;
With filial love it fondly clings,
And e'en to me some pleasure brings.
And such support 't is sweet to give;
For this I willingly would live.
The earth no more with base alloy
Mingles its stream of dying joy
With the pure warmth I feel from heaven;
From whence, to me a strength is given,
Enabling me erect to stand,
Beneath his kind, though chastening hand.
And many pious hearts there be,
Whose truth-illumined eye can see
E'en beauty in a blasted tree;
And to the homesick, longing mind,
The mournful accents of the wind,
That whisper through my branches bare,
Seem like a parting spirit's prayer—
So sad, so pure, but half expressed,
A sighing for a heavenly rest.
Sacred the sorrow-blighted form
That stands erect amid the storm:
The stroke that blights our earthly joys,
Each earthly sorrow, too, destroys.
But let this fond, confiding vine
Still round my shivering trunk entwine;
In countless folds so closely wound,
With ties that cannot be unbound—
Those clinging fibres, strong though fine,
Which tender hearts together join."
More sad and low the accents grew;
The sun had smiled his last adieu,
And in the rushing blast of even,
Away each lingering tone was driven.
Darkness commenced her solemn sway;
I slowly homeward bent my way,
But often turned once more to see
The figure of the blasted tree;
And from the treasury of thought,
Love to recall the truth it taught.
Proclaimed the hour I loved the best;
When tempted forth to feel the air,
And join in nature's evening prayer,
With calm delight, I silent strayed
To where an elmtree's graceful shade,
With invitation kind and sweet,
Seemed to present a verdant seat.
There, seated on the fragrant ground,
I listened to each passing sound.
A little way before me stood
A blasted tree, whose barren wood
Presented one unvarying gray,
Save a sweet vine that wound its way
Around the melancholy tree.
Like a faint smile it seemed to me,
Upon the visage of despair,
Which fancy had awakened there,
That a sad beauty may impart,
But comes not from the stricken heart.
While, lost in deep and mournful thought,
I mused upon the truth it taught,
Methought the elm in words like these,
Which seemed to float upon the breeze,
The solitary tree addressed.
And thus its own light heart expressed:—
"Alas! poor, miserable tree,
How often I have pitied thee,
And wondered why our master left
Thee mournful here, of leaves bereft;
Why far away he has not borne
Thy faded form, so tempest torn;
Why, still his powerful arm should spare
Thy sapless trunk, and branches bare.
See, all but thou are verdant here;
I shudder at thy aspect drear.
Sad sigh the winds that o'er thee blow,
And wildly sing the song of wo.
But, as for thee, sweet, laughing vine,
That round that withered trunk dost twine,
Why art thou wedded to despair?
For thou art young, and gay, and fair.
O, come to my supporting arms;
Fondly I '11 cherish all thy charms;
And leave that mournful, blasted tree,
And come, sweet vine, O, come to me."
And now, methought, with saddest moan,
In sweet, though melancholy tone.
The desolated tree replied,
While, softly sad, the breezes sighed:—
"'T is true, my beauty all has fled;
True, the destroyer, o'er my head
Has passed, and all my joys are dead.
My leafless branches, it is true,
No joyous spring shall e'er renew,
By lightning and by tempest riven;
But, know the stroke was sent from heaven.
The power that stripped my branches bare,
Still makes me his peculiar care;
Still leaves me here with kind design,
To make his power and goodness shine;
My faded form to teach e'en thee,
What thou, vain elm, must one day be;
That thou may est learn he can resume
Our vigor and our youthful bloom.
His sun still on me warmly glows;
And round my form some radiance throws:
He bade this youthful, lovely vine
Around my sapless trunk entwine;
With filial love it fondly clings,
And e'en to me some pleasure brings.
And such support 't is sweet to give;
For this I willingly would live.
The earth no more with base alloy
Mingles its stream of dying joy
With the pure warmth I feel from heaven;
From whence, to me a strength is given,
Enabling me erect to stand,
Beneath his kind, though chastening hand.
And many pious hearts there be,
Whose truth-illumined eye can see
E'en beauty in a blasted tree;
And to the homesick, longing mind,
The mournful accents of the wind,
That whisper through my branches bare,
Seem like a parting spirit's prayer—
So sad, so pure, but half expressed,
A sighing for a heavenly rest.
Sacred the sorrow-blighted form
That stands erect amid the storm:
The stroke that blights our earthly joys,
Each earthly sorrow, too, destroys.
But let this fond, confiding vine
Still round my shivering trunk entwine;
In countless folds so closely wound,
With ties that cannot be unbound—
Those clinging fibres, strong though fine,
Which tender hearts together join."
More sad and low the accents grew;
The sun had smiled his last adieu,
And in the rushing blast of even,
Away each lingering tone was driven.
Darkness commenced her solemn sway;
I slowly homeward bent my way,
But often turned once more to see
The figure of the blasted tree;
And from the treasury of thought,
Love to recall the truth it taught.