THE UPROOTED ELM.

Alas! alas! my good old tree,

A fatal change is past on thee!

And now thine aged form I see,

All helpless, lying low:

The rending tempest, in its flight

‘ Mid darkness of the wintry night,

Hath struck thee, passing in its might,

And felled thee at a blow.

And never more the blooming spring

Shall to thy boughs rich verdure bring,

Or her gay birds, to flit and sing

Where their first plumage grew;

For thou, so long, so fondly made

My eye's delight, my summer shade,

Here, as a lifeless king, art laid

In state, for all to view.

Thy noble trunk and reverend head,

Defined on that cold, snow-white bed,

And those old arms, so widely spread,

Thy hopelessness declare:

Thy roots, in earth concealed so long —

That struck so deep, with hold so strong,

Upturned with many a broken prong,

Are quivering high in air.

But yester-eve I saw thee stand,

With lofty front, with aspect grand,

Where thou hadst braved the ruthless hand

Of time, and spread, and towered;

And stood the rain, the hail, the blast,

Till more than hundred years had passed:

To fall so suddenly at last,

Forever overpowered!

Yet, while I sadly ponder o'er

What now thou art, and wast before,

Were sighs to rise, and tears to pour,

Like summer winds and rain;

Not all the sighs and drops of grief

Could bring to thee one bud or leaf;

Thou liest so like a stricken chief,

By one swift arrow slain.

But may'st thou prove an emblem true

Of what the spoiler's hand shall do

With one, who pensive here would view

A shadowy type in thee!

Let not the conqueror piecemeal slay,

With power by power in slow decay;

But strike, and all in ashes lay!

Farewell, my good old tree!