Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 34, Pages 174-177
No. IV.
WOOD-WALK AND HYMN.
Move along these shades
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.
Wordsworth.
FATHER.—CHILD.
Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves
Trembling, for ever trembling! though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood
Were all one picture!
Father.Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant's legend of that quivering tree?
Child.No, father; doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?
Father.Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn, far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross, he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bowed his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.
Child, (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father?
Father.Nay, my child,
We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us Heaven,
The Woodman and the Mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the Peasant's breast,
And scatter them—far, far too fast!—away
As worthless weeds:—Oh! little do we know
When they have soothed, when saved!
But come, dear boy!
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee.
Come,—let us search for violets.
Child.Know you not
More of the legends which the Woodmen tell
Amidst the trees and flowers?
Father.Wilt thou know more?
Bring then the folding leaf, with dark brown stains,
There—by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
Midst the rich tuft of cowslips—see'st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o'er it, with a wild bee's weight.
