Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Elm-trees
THE ELM-TREES.
I do remember me
Of two old elm-trees' shade,
With mosses sprinkled at their feet,
Where my young childhood play'd;
While the rocks above their head
Frown'd out so stern and gray,
And the little crystal streamlet near
Went leaping on its way.
There, side by side, they flourish'd,
With intertwining crown,
And through their broad embracing arms
The prying moon look'd down;
And I deem'd, as there I linger'd—
A musing child, alone—
She sought my secret heart to scan
From her far silver throne.
I do remember me
Of all their wealth of leaves,
When summer, in her radiant loom,
The burning solstice weaves;
And how, with firm endurance,
They braved an adverse sky,
Like Belisarius, doom'd to meet
His country's wintry eye.
I've roam'd through varied regions,
Where stranger-streamlets run,
And where the proud magnolia flaunts
Beneath a southern sun,
And where the sparse and stinted pine
Puts forth its sombre form,
A vassal to the arctic cloud,
And to the tyrant storm,
And where the pure unruffled lakes
In placid wavelets roll,
Or where sublime Niagara shakes
The wonder-stricken soul,
I've seen the temple's sculptured pile,
The pencil's glorious art,
Yet still those old green trees I wore
Depictured on my heart.
Years fled; my native vale I sought,
Where those tall elm-trees wave;
But many a column of its trust
Lay broken in the grave.
The ancient and the white-hair'd men,
Whose wisdom was its stay,
For them I ask'd, and Echo's voice
Made answer, "Where are they?"
I sought the thrifty matron,
Whose busy wheel was heard
When the early beams of morning
Awoke the chirping bird;
Strange faces from her window look'd,
Strange voices fill'd her cot,
And, 'neath the very vine she train'd,
Her memory was forgot.
I left a youthful mother,
Her children round her knee,
Those babes had risen into men,
And coldly look'd on me;
But she, with all her bloom and grace,
Did in the churchyard lie,
While still those changeless elms upbore
Their kingly canopy.
Though we, who 'neath their lofty screen
Pursued our childish play,
May show amid our sunny locks
Some lurking tints of gray,
And though the village of our love
Doth many a change betide,
Still do those sacred elm-trees stand,
In all their strength and pride.