From these,--a melancholy moan; From those,--a dreary sigh; As if the boughs were wintry bare, And wild winds sweeping by-- Whereas the smallest fleecy cloud Was steadfast in the sky. No sign or touch of stirring air Could either sense observe-- The zephyr had not breath enough The thistle-down to swerve, Or force the filmy gossamers To take another curve. In still and silent slumber hush'd All Nature seem'd to be: From heaven above, or earth beneath, No whisper came to me-- Except the solemn sound and sad From that MYSTERIOUS TREE! A hollow, hollow, hollow, sound, As is that dreamy roar When distant billows boil and bound Along a shingly shore-- But the ocean brim was far aloof, A hundred miles or more. No murmur of the gusty sea, No tumult of the beach, However they may foam and fret, The bounded sense could reach-- Methought the trees in mystic tongue Were talking each to each!-- Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales Of greenwood love or guilt, Of whisper'd vows Beneath their boughs; Or blood obscurely spilt, Or of that near-hand Mansion House A royal Tudor built. Perchance, of booty won or shared Beneath the starry cope-- Or where the suicidal wretch Hung up the fatal rope; Or Beauty kept an evil tryste, Insnared by Love and Hope. Of graves, perchance, untimely scoop'd At midnight dark and dank-- And what is underneath the sod Whereon the grass is rank-- Of old intrigues, And privy leagues, Tradition leaves in blank. Of traitor lips that mutter'd plots-- Of Kin who fought and fell-- God knows the undiscovered schemes, The arts and acts of Hell, Perform'd long generations since, If trees had tongues to tell! With wary eyes, and ears alert, As one who walks afraid, I wander'd down the dappled path Of mingled light and shade-- How sweetly gleam'd that arch of blue Beyond the green arcade! How cheerily shone the glimpse of Heav'n Beyond that verdant aisle! All overarch'd with lofty elms, That quench'd the light, the while, As dim and chill As serves to fill Some old Cathedral pile! And many a gnarled trunk was there, That ages long had stood, Till Time had wrought them into shapes Like Pan's fantastic brood; Or still more foul and hideous forms That Pagans carve in wood! A crouching Satyr lurking here-- And there a Goblin grim-- As staring full of demon life As Gothic sculptor's whim-- A marvel it had scarcely been To hear a voice from him! Some whisper from that horrid mouth Of strange, unearthly tone; Or wild infernal laugh, to chill One's marrow in the bone. But no--it grins like rigid Death, And silent as a stone! As silent as its fellows be, For all is mute with them-- The branch that climbs the leafy roof-- The rough and mossy stem-- The crooked root, And tender shoot, Where hangs the dewy gem.