XII.The Forest.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic,Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.Loud from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring oceanSpeaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.H. W. Longfellow.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic,

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

Loud from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

H. W. Longfellow.

Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And tune his merry noteUnto the sweet bird’s throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither;There shall he seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.Who doth ambition shunAnd loves to live i’ the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleas’d with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither;There shall he seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.Shakspeare.

Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And tune his merry noteUnto the sweet bird’s throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither;There shall he seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.

Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

There shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shunAnd loves to live i’ the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleas’d with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither;There shall he seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.Shakspeare.

Who doth ambition shun

And loves to live i’ the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleas’d with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

There shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Shakspeare.

FROM “BRITANNIA’S PASTORAL.”

There stood the elme, whose shade so mildly dimDoth nourish all that groweth under him;Cipresse that like piramids rune topping,And hurt the least of any by their dropping,The alder whose fat shadow nourisheth,Each plant set neere to him long flourisheth.The heavy-headed plane-tree, by whose shadeThe grasse grows thickest, men are fresher made.The oake, that best endures the thunder-shocks;The everlasting ebene, cedar, boxe;The olive that in wainscot never cleans;The amorous vine which in the elme still weaves;The lotus, juniper, where worms ne’er enter;The pyne, with whom men through the ocean venter;The war-like yeugh, by which (more than the lance)The strong-arm’d English spirits conquer’d France.Among the rest the tamariske there stoodeFor huswife’s besoms only knowne most goode.The cold-place-loving birch, and servis-tree;The walnut loving vales, the mulberry.The maple, ashe, that doe delight in fountains,Which have their currents by the side of mountains.The laurell, mirtle, ivy, date, which holdTheir leaves all winter, be it ne’er so cold.The firre, that often times doth rosins drop;The beach that scales the welkin with his top.All these, and thousand more, within this grove,By all the industry of nature stroveTo frame an arbour that might keep within it,The best of beauties that the world hath in it.William Browne, 1590–1645.

There stood the elme, whose shade so mildly dim

Doth nourish all that groweth under him;

Cipresse that like piramids rune topping,

And hurt the least of any by their dropping,

The alder whose fat shadow nourisheth,

Each plant set neere to him long flourisheth.

The heavy-headed plane-tree, by whose shade

The grasse grows thickest, men are fresher made.

The oake, that best endures the thunder-shocks;

The everlasting ebene, cedar, boxe;

The olive that in wainscot never cleans;

The amorous vine which in the elme still weaves;

The lotus, juniper, where worms ne’er enter;

The pyne, with whom men through the ocean venter;

The war-like yeugh, by which (more than the lance)

The strong-arm’d English spirits conquer’d France.

Among the rest the tamariske there stoode

For huswife’s besoms only knowne most goode.

The cold-place-loving birch, and servis-tree;

The walnut loving vales, the mulberry.

The maple, ashe, that doe delight in fountains,

Which have their currents by the side of mountains.

The laurell, mirtle, ivy, date, which hold

Their leaves all winter, be it ne’er so cold.

The firre, that often times doth rosins drop;

The beach that scales the welkin with his top.

All these, and thousand more, within this grove,

By all the industry of nature strove

To frame an arbour that might keep within it,

The best of beauties that the world hath in it.

William Browne, 1590–1645.

OF THE SEMINARY, AND OF TRANSPLANTING.

FROM “THE SILVA.’

Qui Vineas vel Arbustum constituere volet, Seminaria prius facere debebit, was the precept of Columella (de Arb., cap. 1), speaking of vineyards and fruit-trees; and doubtless we can not pursue a better course for the propagation of timber-trees. For though it seem but a trivial design, that one should make a nursery of foresters; yet it is not to be imagined, without the experience of it, what prodigious numbers a very small spot of ground, well-cultivated, and destined for this purpose, would be able to furnish toward the sending forth of yearly colonies into all the naked quarters of a lordship, or demesne; being, with a pleasant industry, liberally distributed among the tenants, and disposed about the hedge-rows, and other waste and uncultivated places for timber, shelter, fuel, and ornament, to an incredible advantage. This being a cheap and laudable work, of so much pleasure in the execution, and so certain a profit in the event, when once well done (for, as I affirmed, a very small plantarium, or nursery, will, in a few years, stock a vast extent of ground), has made me sometimes in admiration at the universal negligence; as well as raised my admiration, that seeds and plants of such different kinds, should, like so many tender babes and infants suck and thrive at the same breasts; though there are some, indeed, will not so well prosper in company, requiring peculiar juices. But this niceness is more conspicuous in flowers and the herbaceous offspring, than in foresters, which require only diligent weeding and frequent cleansing, till they are able to shift for themselves; and as their vessels enlarge and introduce more copious nourishment, they often starve their neighbors.

John Evelyn, 1628–1706.

The groves of Eden, vanish’d now so long,Live in description and look green in song;These, were my breast inspir’d with equal flame,Like them in beauty, should be like in fame.Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,Here earth and water seem to strive again!Not chaos-like, together crush’d and bruis’d,But as the world, harmoniously confus’d;Where order in variety we see,And where, though all things differ, all agree.Here waving groves a checker’d scant display,And part admit, and part exclude the day;As some coy nymph her lover’s warm address,Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress.There interspers’d in lawns and op’ning glades,Thin trees arise that shun each other’s shades;There, in full light, the russet plains extend;There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills extend.Ev’n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise,That, crown’d with tufted trees and fringing corn,Like verdant isles, the sable waste adorn.Let India boast her plants, nor envy weThe weeping amber or the balmy tree,While by our oaks the precious loads are borneAnd realms commanded which those trees adorn.Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,Though gods assembled grace his tow’ring height,Than what more humble mountains offer here,Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear.See Pan, with flocks, with fruits Pomone crown’d;There blushing Flora paints th’ enamel’d ground,Here Ceres’ gifts in waving prospect stand,And nodding tempt the joyful reaper’s hand;Rich Industry sits smiling on the plains,And peace and plenty tell a Stuart reigns.Alexander Pope, 1688–1744.

The groves of Eden, vanish’d now so long,

Live in description and look green in song;

These, were my breast inspir’d with equal flame,

Like them in beauty, should be like in fame.

Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,

Here earth and water seem to strive again!

Not chaos-like, together crush’d and bruis’d,

But as the world, harmoniously confus’d;

Where order in variety we see,

And where, though all things differ, all agree.

Here waving groves a checker’d scant display,

And part admit, and part exclude the day;

As some coy nymph her lover’s warm address,

Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress.

There interspers’d in lawns and op’ning glades,

Thin trees arise that shun each other’s shades;

There, in full light, the russet plains extend;

There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills extend.

Ev’n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,

And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise,

That, crown’d with tufted trees and fringing corn,

Like verdant isles, the sable waste adorn.

Let India boast her plants, nor envy we

The weeping amber or the balmy tree,

While by our oaks the precious loads are borne

And realms commanded which those trees adorn.

Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,

Though gods assembled grace his tow’ring height,

Than what more humble mountains offer here,

Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear.

See Pan, with flocks, with fruits Pomone crown’d;

There blushing Flora paints th’ enamel’d ground,

Here Ceres’ gifts in waving prospect stand,

And nodding tempt the joyful reaper’s hand;

Rich Industry sits smiling on the plains,

And peace and plenty tell a Stuart reigns.

Alexander Pope, 1688–1744.

In a glade of Hainhault forest, in Essex, about a mile from Barkinside, stands an oak, which has been known through many centuries by the name of Fairlop. The traditions of the country trace it half way up the Christian era. It is still a noble tree, though it has now suffered greatly from the depredations of time. About a yard from the ground, where its rough, fluted stem is thirty-six feet in circumference, it divides into eleven arms; yet not in the horizontal manner of an oak, but rather in that of a beech. Beneath its shade, which overspreads an area of three hundred feet in circuit, an annual fair has long been held, on the 2d of July; and no booth is suffered to be erected beyond the extent of its boughs. But as their extremities are now become sapless, and age is yearly curtailing their length, the liberties of the fair seem to be in a desponding condition. The honor however is great. But honors are often accompanied with inconveniences; and Fairlop has sufferedfrom its distinctions. In the feasting that attends the fair, fires are often necessary; and no places seemed so proper to make them in, as the hollow cavities formed by the heaving roots of the tree. This practice has brought a speedier decay on Fairlop than it might otherwise have suffered.

William Gilpin, 1724–1807.

FROM COWPER’S LETTERS.

Since your departure I have twice visited the oak, with an intention of pushing my inquiries a mile beyond it, where it seems I should have found another oak, much larger, and much more respectable than the former; but once I was hindered by the rain, and once by the sultriness of the day. This latter oak has been known by the name of “Judith” many ages, and is said to have been an oak at the time of the Conquest. If I have not an opportunity to reach it before your arrival here, we will attempt that exploit together, and even if I should have been able to visit it ere you come, I shall yet be glad to do so, for the pleasure of extraordinary sights, like all other pleasures, is doubled by the participation of a friend.

W. Cowper.—Letter to S. Rose, Esq., Sept. 11, 1788.

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of allThat once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth,(Since which I number threescore winters past),A shatter’d veteran, hollow-trunk’d perhaps,As now, and with excoriate forks deform,Relics of ages! Could a mind, imbuedWith truth from Heaven, created thing adore,I might with rev’rence kneel, and worship thee.It seems idolatry with some excuse,When our forefather Druids in their oaks,Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yetUnpurified by an authentic actOf amnesty, the meed of blood divine,Lov’d not the light, but, gloomy, into gloomOf thickest shades, like Adam after tasteOf fruit proscrib’d, as to a refuge, fled.Thou wast a bauble once; a cup-and-ball,Which babes might play with; and the thievish jaySeeking her food, with ease might have purloin’dThe auburn nut that held thee, swallowing downThy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,And all thy embryo vastness, at a gulp.But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rainsBeneath thy parent tree mellow’d the soilDesign’d thy cradle; and a skipping deer,With pointed hoof, nibbling the glebe, prepar’dThe soft receptacle, in which, secure,Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.So Fancy dreams. Disprove it if ye canYe reas’ners broad awake, whose busy searchOf argument employ’d too oft amiss,Sifts half the pleasure of short life away!Thou fill’st nature; and in the loamy clod,Swelling with vegetative force instinct,Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins,Now stars; two lobes protruding, pair’d exact;A leaf succeeded, and another leaf,And, all the elements thy puny growthFost’ring propitious, thou becam’st a twig.Who liv’d when thou wast such? O couldst thou speakAs in Dodona once, thy kindred trees,Oracular, I would not curious askThe future, best unknown, but at thy mouthInquisitive, the less ambiguous past.By thee I might correct, erroneous oft,The clock of History, facts and eventsTiming more punctual, unrecorded factsRecov’ring, and misstated, setting right—Desp’rate attempt, till trees shall speak again!Time made thee what thou wast, king of the wood;And Time hath made thee what thou art—a caveFor owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughsO’erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocksThat graz’d it stood beneath that ample copeUncrowded, yet safe-shelter’d from the storm.No flocks frequent thee now. Thou hast outlivedThy popularity, and art become(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thingForgotten as the foliage of thy youth.While thus through all the stages thou hast push’dOf treeship—first a seedling, hid in grass;Then twig; then sapling; and as cent’ry roll’dSlow after century, a giant-bulkOf girth enormous, with moss-cushion’d rootUpheav’d above the soil, and sides emboss’dWith prominent wens globose—till at the lastThe rottenness, which time is charged to inflictOn other mighty ones, found also thee.* * * * *William Cowper, 1731–1800.

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all

That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth,

(Since which I number threescore winters past),

A shatter’d veteran, hollow-trunk’d perhaps,

As now, and with excoriate forks deform,

Relics of ages! Could a mind, imbued

With truth from Heaven, created thing adore,

I might with rev’rence kneel, and worship thee.

It seems idolatry with some excuse,When our forefather Druids in their oaks,Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yetUnpurified by an authentic actOf amnesty, the meed of blood divine,Lov’d not the light, but, gloomy, into gloomOf thickest shades, like Adam after tasteOf fruit proscrib’d, as to a refuge, fled.

It seems idolatry with some excuse,

When our forefather Druids in their oaks,

Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet

Unpurified by an authentic act

Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine,

Lov’d not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom

Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste

Of fruit proscrib’d, as to a refuge, fled.

Thou wast a bauble once; a cup-and-ball,Which babes might play with; and the thievish jaySeeking her food, with ease might have purloin’dThe auburn nut that held thee, swallowing downThy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,And all thy embryo vastness, at a gulp.But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rainsBeneath thy parent tree mellow’d the soilDesign’d thy cradle; and a skipping deer,With pointed hoof, nibbling the glebe, prepar’dThe soft receptacle, in which, secure,Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.

Thou wast a bauble once; a cup-and-ball,

Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay

Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin’d

The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down

Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,

And all thy embryo vastness, at a gulp.

But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains

Beneath thy parent tree mellow’d the soil

Design’d thy cradle; and a skipping deer,

With pointed hoof, nibbling the glebe, prepar’d

The soft receptacle, in which, secure,

Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it if ye canYe reas’ners broad awake, whose busy searchOf argument employ’d too oft amiss,Sifts half the pleasure of short life away!

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it if ye can

Ye reas’ners broad awake, whose busy search

Of argument employ’d too oft amiss,

Sifts half the pleasure of short life away!

Thou fill’st nature; and in the loamy clod,Swelling with vegetative force instinct,Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins,Now stars; two lobes protruding, pair’d exact;A leaf succeeded, and another leaf,And, all the elements thy puny growthFost’ring propitious, thou becam’st a twig.

Thou fill’st nature; and in the loamy clod,

Swelling with vegetative force instinct,

Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins,

Now stars; two lobes protruding, pair’d exact;

A leaf succeeded, and another leaf,

And, all the elements thy puny growth

Fost’ring propitious, thou becam’st a twig.

Who liv’d when thou wast such? O couldst thou speakAs in Dodona once, thy kindred trees,Oracular, I would not curious askThe future, best unknown, but at thy mouthInquisitive, the less ambiguous past.

Who liv’d when thou wast such? O couldst thou speak

As in Dodona once, thy kindred trees,

Oracular, I would not curious ask

The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth

Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft,The clock of History, facts and eventsTiming more punctual, unrecorded factsRecov’ring, and misstated, setting right—Desp’rate attempt, till trees shall speak again!

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft,

The clock of History, facts and events

Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts

Recov’ring, and misstated, setting right—

Desp’rate attempt, till trees shall speak again!

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the wood;And Time hath made thee what thou art—a caveFor owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughsO’erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocksThat graz’d it stood beneath that ample copeUncrowded, yet safe-shelter’d from the storm.No flocks frequent thee now. Thou hast outlivedThy popularity, and art become(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thingForgotten as the foliage of thy youth.

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the wood;

And Time hath made thee what thou art—a cave

For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs

O’erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks

That graz’d it stood beneath that ample cope

Uncrowded, yet safe-shelter’d from the storm.

No flocks frequent thee now. Thou hast outlived

Thy popularity, and art become

(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing

Forgotten as the foliage of thy youth.

While thus through all the stages thou hast push’dOf treeship—first a seedling, hid in grass;Then twig; then sapling; and as cent’ry roll’dSlow after century, a giant-bulkOf girth enormous, with moss-cushion’d rootUpheav’d above the soil, and sides emboss’dWith prominent wens globose—till at the lastThe rottenness, which time is charged to inflictOn other mighty ones, found also thee.

While thus through all the stages thou hast push’d

Of treeship—first a seedling, hid in grass;

Then twig; then sapling; and as cent’ry roll’d

Slow after century, a giant-bulk

Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion’d root

Upheav’d above the soil, and sides emboss’d

With prominent wens globose—till at the last

The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict

On other mighty ones, found also thee.

* * * * *

William Cowper, 1731–1800.

The history of the Groaning Tree is this. About forty years ago, a cottager, who lived near the center of the village (Badesley, near Lymington), heard frequently a strange noise behind his house, like that of a person in extreme agony. Soon after it caught the attention of his wife, who was then confined to her bed. She was a timorous woman, and being greatly alarmed, her husband endeavored to persuade her that the noise she heard was only the bellowing of the stags in the forest. By degrees, however, the neighbors on all sides heard it, and the thing began to be much talked of. It was by this time plainly discovered that the groaning noise proceeded from an elm, which grew at the end of the garden. It was a young, vigorous tree, and, to all appearance, perfectly sound.

In a few weeks the fame of the groaning tree was spread far and wide, and people from all parts flocked to it. Among others, it attracted the curiosity of the late Prince and Princess of Wales,[12]who resided, at that time for the advantage of a sea-bath, at Pilewell, the seat of Sir James Worsley, which stood within a quarter of a mile of the groaning tree.

Though the country people assigned many superstitious causes for this strange phenomenon, the naturalist could assign no physical one that was in any degree satisfactory. Some thought that it was owing to the twisting and friction of the roots. Others thought it proceeded from water, which had collected in the body of the tree—or perhaps from pent air. But no cause that was alleged appeared equal to the effect. In the mean time the tree did not always groan—sometimes disappointingits visitants; yet no cause could be assigned for its temporary cessations, either from seasons or weather. If any difference was observed, it was thought to groan least when the weather was wet, and most when it was clear and frosty; but the sound at all times seemed to arise from the root.

Thus the groaning tree continued an object of astonishment during the space of eighteen or twenty months, to all the country around; and for the information of distant parts a pamphlet was drawn up containing a particular account of all the circumstances relating to it.

At length the owner of it, a gentleman of the name of Forbes, making too rash an experiment to discover the cause, bored a hole in its trunk. After this it never groaned. It was then rooted up, with a further view to making a discovery; but still nothing appeared which led to any investigation of the cause. It was universally, however, believed that there was no trick in the affair, but that some natural cause really existed, though never understood.

William Gilpin, 1724–1807.

There is a yew-tree, pride of Horton Vale,Which to this day stands single, in the midstOf its own darkness, as it stood of yore,Not loth to furnish weapons for the bandsOf Umfraville or Percy, ere they marchedTo Scotland’s heaths; or those that crossed the seaAnd drew their sounding bows at Agincour,Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or at Poitiers.Of vast circumference and gloom profoundThis solitary tree! a living thingProduced too slowly ever to decay;Of form and aspect too magnificentTo be destroyed. But worthier still of noteAre those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growthOf intertwisted fibers serpentine,Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved—Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looksThat threaten the profane; a pillared shade,Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,By sheddings from the piny umbrage tingedPerennially—beneath whose sable roofOf boughs, as if for festal purpose, deckedWith unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapesMay meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope,Silence and Foresight—Death the skeleton,And Time the shadow—here to celebrate,As in a natural temple scattered o’erWith altars undisturbed of mossy stone,United worship; or in mute reposeTo lie, and listen to the mountain floodMurmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.William Wordsworth.

There is a yew-tree, pride of Horton Vale,

Which to this day stands single, in the midst

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore,

Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands

Of Umfraville or Percy, ere they marched

To Scotland’s heaths; or those that crossed the sea

And drew their sounding bows at Agincour,

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or at Poitiers.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound

This solitary tree! a living thing

Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note

Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibers serpentine,

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved—

Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks

That threaten the profane; a pillared shade,

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,

By sheddings from the piny umbrage tinged

Perennially—beneath whose sable roof

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked

With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes

May meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope,

Silence and Foresight—Death the skeleton,

And Time the shadow—here to celebrate,

As in a natural temple scattered o’er

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,

United worship; or in mute repose

To lie, and listen to the mountain flood

Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.

William Wordsworth.

FROM THE ICELANDIC EDDA.

I know an ash,NamedYgg-drasill,A stately tree,With white dust strewed.Thence come the dewsThat wet the dales;It stands aye greenO’er Urda’s well.Thence come the maidsWho much do know;Three from the hallBeneath the tree;One they namedWas,AndBeingnext,The thirdShall be,On the shield they cut.Henderson’s“Iceland.”

I know an ash,NamedYgg-drasill,A stately tree,With white dust strewed.Thence come the dewsThat wet the dales;It stands aye greenO’er Urda’s well.

I know an ash,

NamedYgg-drasill,

A stately tree,

With white dust strewed.

Thence come the dews

That wet the dales;

It stands aye green

O’er Urda’s well.

Thence come the maidsWho much do know;Three from the hallBeneath the tree;One they namedWas,AndBeingnext,The thirdShall be,On the shield they cut.Henderson’s“Iceland.”

Thence come the maids

Who much do know;

Three from the hall

Beneath the tree;

One they namedWas,

AndBeingnext,

The thirdShall be,

On the shield they cut.

Henderson’s“Iceland.”

At Niestad,[13]in the duchy of Wurtemburg, stood a lime, which was for many ages so remarkable that the city frequently took its denomination from it, being often calledNeustadtan der grossen Linden, or Niestad near the Great Lime. Scarce any person passed near Niestad without visiting this tree; and many princes and great men did honor to it by building obelisks, columns, and monuments of various kinds around it, engraved with their arms and names, to which the dates were added, and often some device. Mr. Evelin, who procured copies of several ofthese monumental inscriptions, tells us there were two hundred of them. The columns on which they were fixed served also to bear up the vast limbs of the tree, which began through age to become unwieldy. Thus this mighty plant stood many years in great state, the ornament of the town, the admiration of the country, and supported, as it were, by the princes of the empire. At length it felt the effects of war. Niestad was surrounded by an enemy, and the limbs of this venerable tree were mangled in wantonness by the besieging troops. Whether it still exists, I know not; but long after these injuries it stood a noble ruin, discovering, by the foundations of the several monuments, which formerly propped its spreading boughs, how far its limits had once extended.

* * * I shall next celebrate the Lime of Cleves. This, also, was a tree of great magnificence. It grew in an open plain, just at the entrance of the city, and was thought an object worthy to exercise the taste of the magistracy. The burgomaster of his day had it surveyed with great accuracy, and trimmed into eight broad, pyramidal faces. Each corner was supported by a handsome stone pillar; and in the middle of the tree, among the branches, was cut a noble room, which the vast space contained within easily suffered, without injuring the regularity of any of the eight faces. To crown all, the top was curiously clipped into some kind of head, and adorned artificially, but in what manner, whether with the head of a lion, or a stag, a weather-cock, or a sun-dial, we are not told. It was something, however, in the highest style of Dutch taste. This tree was long the admiration and envy of all the states of Holland.

William Gilpin, 1724–1807.

Rippling through thy branches goes the sunshine,Among thy leaves that palpitate forever;Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned,The soul once of some tremulous, inland river,Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb forever!While all the forest, witched with slumberous moonshine,Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence;Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended—I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy islands,And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung silence.Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet,Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad,Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadowSlopes quivering down the water’s dusky quiet,Thou shrink’st, as on her bath’s edge would some strolled Dryad.Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers;Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping;Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience,And the lithe boughs hang murmuring and weepingAbove her, as she steals the mystery from thy keeping.Thou art to me like my beloved maiden,So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences;Thy shadow scarce seems shade, thy pattering leafletsSprinkle their gathered sunshine o’er my senses,And Nature gives me all her summer confidences.Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble,Thou sympathized still; wild and unquiet,I fling me down; thy ripple, like a river,Flows valley-ward, where calmness is, and by itMy heart is floated down into the land of quiet.J. R. Lowell.

Rippling through thy branches goes the sunshine,

Among thy leaves that palpitate forever;

Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned,

The soul once of some tremulous, inland river,

Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb forever!

While all the forest, witched with slumberous moonshine,Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence;Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended—I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy islands,And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung silence.

While all the forest, witched with slumberous moonshine,

Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence;

Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended—

I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy islands,

And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung silence.

Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet,Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad,Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadowSlopes quivering down the water’s dusky quiet,Thou shrink’st, as on her bath’s edge would some strolled Dryad.

Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet,

Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad,

Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow

Slopes quivering down the water’s dusky quiet,

Thou shrink’st, as on her bath’s edge would some strolled Dryad.

Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers;Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping;Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience,And the lithe boughs hang murmuring and weepingAbove her, as she steals the mystery from thy keeping.

Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers;

Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping;

Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience,

And the lithe boughs hang murmuring and weeping

Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy keeping.

Thou art to me like my beloved maiden,So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences;Thy shadow scarce seems shade, thy pattering leafletsSprinkle their gathered sunshine o’er my senses,And Nature gives me all her summer confidences.

Thou art to me like my beloved maiden,

So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences;

Thy shadow scarce seems shade, thy pattering leaflets

Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o’er my senses,

And Nature gives me all her summer confidences.

Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble,Thou sympathized still; wild and unquiet,I fling me down; thy ripple, like a river,Flows valley-ward, where calmness is, and by itMy heart is floated down into the land of quiet.J. R. Lowell.

Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble,

Thou sympathized still; wild and unquiet,

I fling me down; thy ripple, like a river,

Flows valley-ward, where calmness is, and by it

My heart is floated down into the land of quiet.

J. R. Lowell.

FROM THE GERMAN.

O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!Green not alone in summer time,But in the winter’s frost and rime!O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!To love me in prosperity,And leave me in adversityO maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!The nightingale! the nightingale thou tak’st for thine example!So long as summer laughs she sings,But in the autumn spreads her wings;The nightingale! the nightingale thou tak’st for thine example!The meadow-brook, the meadow-brook is mirror of thy falsehood!It flows so long as falls the rain;In drought its springs soon dry again;The meadow-brook, the meadow-brook is mirror of thy falsehood!Anonymous.Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.

O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!Green not alone in summer time,But in the winter’s frost and rime!O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!

O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!

Green not alone in summer time,

But in the winter’s frost and rime!

O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!To love me in prosperity,And leave me in adversityO maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!

To love me in prosperity,

And leave me in adversity

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!

The nightingale! the nightingale thou tak’st for thine example!So long as summer laughs she sings,But in the autumn spreads her wings;The nightingale! the nightingale thou tak’st for thine example!

The nightingale! the nightingale thou tak’st for thine example!

So long as summer laughs she sings,

But in the autumn spreads her wings;

The nightingale! the nightingale thou tak’st for thine example!

The meadow-brook, the meadow-brook is mirror of thy falsehood!It flows so long as falls the rain;In drought its springs soon dry again;The meadow-brook, the meadow-brook is mirror of thy falsehood!Anonymous.Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.

The meadow-brook, the meadow-brook is mirror of thy falsehood!

It flows so long as falls the rain;

In drought its springs soon dry again;

The meadow-brook, the meadow-brook is mirror of thy falsehood!

Anonymous.Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.

THE OAK.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO.

The tall oak, towering to the skies,The fury of the wind defies;From age to age, in virtue strong,Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.O’erwhelmed at length, upon the plainIt puts forth wings, and sweeps the main;The self-same foe undaunted braves,And fights the winds upon the waves.James Montgomery.

The tall oak, towering to the skies,The fury of the wind defies;From age to age, in virtue strong,Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.

The tall oak, towering to the skies,

The fury of the wind defies;

From age to age, in virtue strong,

Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.

O’erwhelmed at length, upon the plainIt puts forth wings, and sweeps the main;The self-same foe undaunted braves,And fights the winds upon the waves.James Montgomery.

O’erwhelmed at length, upon the plain

It puts forth wings, and sweeps the main;

The self-same foe undaunted braves,

And fights the winds upon the waves.

James Montgomery.

FROM THE GREEK OF ANTIPHILUS.

Hail, venerable boughs, that in mid skySpread broad and deep your leafy canopy!Hail, cool, refreshing shade, abode most dearTo the sun-wearied traveler, wand’ring near!Hail, close inwoven bow’rs, fit dwelling-placeFor insect tribes, and man’s imperial race!Me, too, reclining in your green retreat,Shield from the blazing day’s meridian heat.Translation ofJ. H. Merivale.

Hail, venerable boughs, that in mid sky

Spread broad and deep your leafy canopy!

Hail, cool, refreshing shade, abode most dear

To the sun-wearied traveler, wand’ring near!

Hail, close inwoven bow’rs, fit dwelling-place

For insect tribes, and man’s imperial race!

Me, too, reclining in your green retreat,

Shield from the blazing day’s meridian heat.

Translation ofJ. H. Merivale.

And such I knew a forest seer,A minstrel of the natural year,Foreteller of the vernal ides,Wise harbinger of spheres and tides—A lover true, who knew by heart,Each joy the mountain dales impart;It seemed that Nature could not raiseA plant in any secret place;In quaking bog, or snowy hill.Beneath the grass that shades the rill,Under the snow, between the rocks,In damp fields, known to bird and fox;But he would come in the very hourIt opened in its virgin bower,As if a sunbeam showed the place,And tell its long-descended race.It seemed as if the breezes brought him;It seemed as if the sparrows taught him;As if by secret sight he knewWhere, in far fields, the orchis grew.Many haps fall in the field,Seldom seen by wistful eyes;But all her shows did Nature yield,To please and win this pilgrim wise.He saw the partridge drum in the woods,He heard the woodcock’s evening hymn;He found the tawny thrush’s broods;And the sky-hawk did wait for him.What others did at distance hear,And guessed within the thicket’s gloom,Was showed to this philosopher,And at his bidding seemed to come.In unplowed Maine he sought the lumberer’s gang,Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang;He trod the unplanted forest floor, whereonThe all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone;Where feeds the moose and walks the surly bear,And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds,The slight Linnea hang its twin-born heads;And blessed the monument of the man of flowers,Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers.He heard, when in the grove, at intervals,With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls—One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree,Declares the close of its green century.Low lies the plant to whose creation wentSweet influence from every element;Whose living towers the years conspired to build—Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild.Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed,He roamed, content alike with man and beast.Where darkness found him he lay glad at night;There the red morning touched him with its light.Three moons his great heart him a hermit made,So long he roved at will the boundless shade.The timid it concerns to ask their way,And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray;To make no step until the event is known,And ills to come, as evils past, bemoan.Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps,To spy what danger on his pathway creeps.Go where he will, the wise man is at home—His hearth the earth, his hall the azure dome;Where his clear spirit leads him, there his road,By God’s own light illumined and foreshowed.R. W. Emerson.

And such I knew a forest seer,

A minstrel of the natural year,

Foreteller of the vernal ides,

Wise harbinger of spheres and tides—

A lover true, who knew by heart,

Each joy the mountain dales impart;

It seemed that Nature could not raise

A plant in any secret place;

In quaking bog, or snowy hill.

Beneath the grass that shades the rill,

Under the snow, between the rocks,

In damp fields, known to bird and fox;

But he would come in the very hour

It opened in its virgin bower,

As if a sunbeam showed the place,

And tell its long-descended race.

It seemed as if the breezes brought him;

It seemed as if the sparrows taught him;

As if by secret sight he knew

Where, in far fields, the orchis grew.

Many haps fall in the field,

Seldom seen by wistful eyes;

But all her shows did Nature yield,

To please and win this pilgrim wise.

He saw the partridge drum in the woods,

He heard the woodcock’s evening hymn;

He found the tawny thrush’s broods;

And the sky-hawk did wait for him.

What others did at distance hear,

And guessed within the thicket’s gloom,

Was showed to this philosopher,

And at his bidding seemed to come.

In unplowed Maine he sought the lumberer’s gang,Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang;He trod the unplanted forest floor, whereonThe all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone;Where feeds the moose and walks the surly bear,And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds,The slight Linnea hang its twin-born heads;And blessed the monument of the man of flowers,Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers.He heard, when in the grove, at intervals,With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls—One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree,Declares the close of its green century.Low lies the plant to whose creation wentSweet influence from every element;Whose living towers the years conspired to build—Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild.Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed,He roamed, content alike with man and beast.Where darkness found him he lay glad at night;There the red morning touched him with its light.Three moons his great heart him a hermit made,So long he roved at will the boundless shade.The timid it concerns to ask their way,And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray;To make no step until the event is known,And ills to come, as evils past, bemoan.Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps,To spy what danger on his pathway creeps.Go where he will, the wise man is at home—His hearth the earth, his hall the azure dome;Where his clear spirit leads him, there his road,By God’s own light illumined and foreshowed.R. W. Emerson.

In unplowed Maine he sought the lumberer’s gang,

Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang;

He trod the unplanted forest floor, whereon

The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone;

Where feeds the moose and walks the surly bear,

And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.

He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds,

The slight Linnea hang its twin-born heads;

And blessed the monument of the man of flowers,

Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers.

He heard, when in the grove, at intervals,

With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls—

One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree,

Declares the close of its green century.

Low lies the plant to whose creation went

Sweet influence from every element;

Whose living towers the years conspired to build—

Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild.

Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed,

He roamed, content alike with man and beast.

Where darkness found him he lay glad at night;

There the red morning touched him with its light.

Three moons his great heart him a hermit made,

So long he roved at will the boundless shade.

The timid it concerns to ask their way,

And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray;

To make no step until the event is known,

And ills to come, as evils past, bemoan.

Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps,

To spy what danger on his pathway creeps.

Go where he will, the wise man is at home—

His hearth the earth, his hall the azure dome;

Where his clear spirit leads him, there his road,

By God’s own light illumined and foreshowed.

R. W. Emerson.

Those who have only lived in forest countries, where vast tracts are shaded by a dense growth of oak, ash, chestnut, hickory, and other trees of deciduous foliage, which present the most pleasing varieties of verdure and freshness, can have but little idea of the effect produced on the feelings by aged forests of pine, composed in great degree of a single species, whose towering summits are crowned with one dark-green canopy, which successive seasons find unchanged, and nothing but death causes to vary. Their robust and gigantic trunks rise a hundred or more feet high in purely proportioned columns before the limbs begin to diverge; and their tops, densely clothed with long, bristling foliage, intermingle so closely as to allow of but slight entrance to the sun. Hence the undergrowth of such forests is comparatively slight and thin, since none but shrubs and plants that love the shade can flourish under this perpetual exclusion of the animating and invigorating rays of the great exciter of the vegetable world. Through such forests, and by the merest foot-paths in great part, it was my lot to pass many miles almost every day; and had I not endeavored to derive some amusement and instruction from the study of the forest itself, my time would have been as fatiguing to me as it was certainly quiet and solemn. But wherever Nature is, and under whatever form she may present herself, enough is always proffered to fix attention and to produce pleasure, if we will condescend to observe with carefulness. I soon found that even a pine-forest was far from being devoid of interest.

John M. Godman, 1795–1829.

A WOOD IN WINTER.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Sweet, lonely wood, that like a friend art foundTo soothe my weary thoughts that brood on woe,While through dull days and short the north winds blow,Numbing with winter’s breath the air and groundThy time-worn, leafy locks seem all around,Like mine, to whiten with old age’s snow,Now that thy sunny banks, where late did growThe painted flowers, in frost and ice are bound.As I go musing on the dim, brief lightThat still of life remain, then I, too, feelThe creeping cold my limbs and spirits thrill;But I with sharper frost than thine congeal;Since ruder winds my winter brings, and nightsOf greater length, and days more scant and chill.Anonymous Translation.Giovanni Della Casa, 1503–1556.

Sweet, lonely wood, that like a friend art found

To soothe my weary thoughts that brood on woe,

While through dull days and short the north winds blow,

Numbing with winter’s breath the air and ground

Thy time-worn, leafy locks seem all around,

Like mine, to whiten with old age’s snow,

Now that thy sunny banks, where late did grow

The painted flowers, in frost and ice are bound.

As I go musing on the dim, brief light

That still of life remain, then I, too, feel

The creeping cold my limbs and spirits thrill;

But I with sharper frost than thine congeal;

Since ruder winds my winter brings, and nights

Of greater length, and days more scant and chill.

Anonymous Translation.Giovanni Della Casa, 1503–1556.

Leaves have their time to fall,And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,And stars to set—but all,Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.Day is for mortal care;Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth;Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer—But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.The banquet hath its hour,Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;There comes a day of grief’s overwhelming power,A time for softer tears—but all are thine.Youth and the opening roseMay look like things too glorious for decay,And smile at thee—but thou art not of thoseThat wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.Leaves have their time to fall,And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,And stars to set, but all—Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.We know when moons shall wane—When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea—When autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden grain—But who shall teach us when to look for thee?Is it when spring’s first galeComes forth to whisper where the violets lie?Is it when roses in our path grow pale?They have one season—all are ours to die!Thou art where billows foam—Thou art where music melts upon the air;Thou art around us in our peaceful home,And the world calls us forth to meet thee there.Thou art where friend meets friend,Beneath the shadow of the elm, at rest;Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rendThe skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.Leaves have their time to fall,And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,And stars to set, but all—Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.Felicia Hemans.

Leaves have their time to fall,And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,And stars to set—but all,Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,

And stars to set—but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Day is for mortal care;Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth;Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer—But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

Day is for mortal care;

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth;

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer—

But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;There comes a day of grief’s overwhelming power,A time for softer tears—but all are thine.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day of grief’s overwhelming power,

A time for softer tears—but all are thine.

Youth and the opening roseMay look like things too glorious for decay,And smile at thee—but thou art not of thoseThat wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee—but thou art not of those

That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,And stars to set, but all—Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,

And stars to set, but all—

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

We know when moons shall wane—When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea—When autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden grain—But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

We know when moons shall wane—

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea—

When autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden grain—

But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring’s first galeComes forth to whisper where the violets lie?Is it when roses in our path grow pale?They have one season—all are ours to die!

Is it when spring’s first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?

Is it when roses in our path grow pale?

They have one season—all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam—Thou art where music melts upon the air;Thou art around us in our peaceful home,And the world calls us forth to meet thee there.

Thou art where billows foam—

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home,

And the world calls us forth to meet thee there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,Beneath the shadow of the elm, at rest;Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rendThe skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm, at rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend

The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,And stars to set, but all—Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.Felicia Hemans.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,

And stars to set, but all—

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Felicia Hemans.

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;Though solitary, who is not alone,But doth converse with that Eternal Love.O how more sweet is bird’s harmonious moan,Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow’d dove,Than those smooth whisperings near a prince’s throne,Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!O how more sweet is zephyr’s wholesome breath,And sighs embalm’d, which new-born flowers unfold,Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath!How sweet are streams, to poisons drank in gold!The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;Woods’ harmless shades have only true delights.William Drummond, 1585–1649.

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,

Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;

Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that Eternal Love.

O how more sweet is bird’s harmonious moan,

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow’d dove,

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince’s throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!

O how more sweet is zephyr’s wholesome breath,

And sighs embalm’d, which new-born flowers unfold,

Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath!

How sweet are streams, to poisons drank in gold!

The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;

Woods’ harmless shades have only true delights.

William Drummond, 1585–1649.

[Pastoral Scene]

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