THE SYCAMORES.

IN the outskirts of the village,

On the river's winding shores,

Stand the Occidental plane-trees,

Stand the ancient sycamores.

One long century hath been numbered,

And another half-way told,

Since the rustic Irish gleeman

Broke for them the virgin mould.

Deftly set to Celtic music,

At his violin's sound they grew,

Through the moonlit eves of summer,

Making Amphion's fable true.

Rise again, then poor Hugh Tallant

Pass in jerkin green along,

With thy eyes brimful of laughter,

And thy mouth as full of song.

Pioneer of Erin's outcasts,

With his fiddle and his pack;

Little dreamed the village Saxons

Of the myriads at his back.

How he wrought with spade and fiddle,

Delved by day and sang by night,

With a hand that never wearied,

And a heart forever light,—

Still the gay tradition mingles

With a record grave and drear,

Like the rollic air of Cluny,

With the solemn march of Mear.

When the box-tree, white with blossoms,

Made the sweet May woodlands glad,

And the Aronia by the river

Lighted up the swarming shad,

And the bulging nets swept shoreward,

With their silver-sided haul,

Midst the shouts of dripping fishers,

He was merriest of them all.

When, among the jovial huskers,

Love stole in at Labor's side,

With the lusty airs of England,

Soft his Celtic measures vied.

Songs of love and wailing lyke — wake,

And the merry fair's carouse;

Of the wild Red Fox of Erin

And the Woman of Three Cows,

By the blazing hearths of winter,

Pleasant seemed his simple tales,

Midst the grimmer Yorkshire legends

And the mountain myths of Wales.

How the souls in Purgatory

Scrambled up from fate forlorn,

On St. Eleven's sackcloth ladder,

Slyly hitched to Satan's horn.

Of the fiddler who at Tara

Played all night to ghosts of kings;

Of the brown dwarfs, and the fairies

Dancing in their moorland rings.

Jolliest of our birds of singing,

Best he loved the Bob-o-link.

“Hush!” he‘ d say, “the tipsy fairies

Hear the little folks in drink!”

Merry-faced, with spade and fiddle,

Singing through the ancient town,

Only this, of poor Hugh Tallant,

Hath Tradition handed down.

Not a stone his grave discloses;

But if yet his spirit walks,

‘ T is beneath the trees he planted,

And when Bob-o-Lincoln talks;

Green memorials of the gleeman I

Linking still the river-shores,

With their shadows cast by sunset,

Stand Hugh Tallant's sycamores!

When the Father of his Country

Through the north-land riding came,

And the roofs were starred with banners,

And the steeples rang acclaim,—

When each war-scarred Continental,

Leaving smithy, mill, and farm,

Waved his rusted sword in welcome,

And shot off his old king's arm,—

Slowly passed that August Presence

Down the thronged and shouting street;

Village girls as white as angels,

Scattering flowers around his feet.

Midway, where the plane-tree's shadow

Deepest fell, his rein he drew

On his stately head, uncovered,

Cool and soft the west-wind blew.

And he stood up in his stirrups,

Looking up and looking down

On the hills of Gold and Silver

Rimming round the little town,—

On the river, full of sunshine,

To the lap of greenest vales

Winding down from wooded headlands,

Willow-skirted, white with sails.

And he said, the landscape sweeping

Slowly with his ungloved hand,

“I have seen no prospect fairer

In this goodly Eastern land.”

Then the bugles of his escort

Stirred to life the cavalcade

And that head, so bare and stately,

Vanished down the depths of shade.

Ever since, in town and farm-house,

Life has had its ebb and flow;

Thrice hath passed the human harvest

To its garner green and low.

But the trees the gleeman planted,

Through the changes, changeless stand;

As the marble calm of Tadmor

Mocks the desert's shifting sand.

Still the level moon at rising

Silvers o'er each stately shaft;

Still beneath them, half in shadow,

Singing, glides the pleasure craft;

Still beneath them, arm-enfolded,

Love and Youth together stray;

While, as heart to heart beats faster,

More and more their feet delay.

Where the ancient cobbler, Keezar,

On the open hillside wrought,

Singing, as he drew his stitches,

Songs his German masters taught,

Singing, with his gray hair floating

Round his rosy ample face,—

Now a thousand Saxon craftsmen

Stitch and hammer in his place.

All the pastoral lanes so grassy

Now are Traffic's dusty streets;

From the village, grown a city,

Fast the rural grace retreats.

But, still green, and tall, and stately,

On the river's winding shores,

Stand the Occidental plane-trees,

Stand, Hugh Taliant's sycamores.