Father—Child

Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leavesTrembling, for ever trembling; though the limeAnd chestnut boughs, and those long arching spraysOf eglantine, hang still, as if the woodWere 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 danceAmidst the branches?

Father. Oh! a cause more deep,More solemn far, the rustic doth assignTo the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereonThe meek Redeemer bow’d his head to death,Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,Through all its race the pale tree hath sent downA thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,Making them tremulous, when not a breezeDisturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakesThe light lines of the shining gossamer.

Father. Nay, my child,We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,With something of a lingering love, I readThe characters, by that mysterious hour,Stamp’d on the reverential soul of manIn visionary days; and thence thrown backOn the fair forms of nature. Many a signOf the great sacrifice which won us heaven,The woodman and the mountaineer can traceOn rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!They do not wisely that, with hurried hand,Would pluck these salutary fancies forthFrom their strong soil within the peasant’s breast,And scatter them--far, far too fast!--awayAs worthless weeds. Oh! little do we knowWhen 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 notMore of the legends which the woodmen tellAmidst the trees and flowers?

Father. Wilt thou know more?Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stainsThere--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 treeJust bending o’er it with a wild bee’s weight.

Child. The Arum leaf?

Father. Yes. These deep inwrought marks,The villager will tell thee, (and with voiceLower’d in his true heart’s reverent earnestness,)Are the flower’s portion from th’ atoning bloodOn Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,Catching from that dread shower of agonyA few mysterious drops, transmitted thusUnto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,A heritage, for storm or vernal windNever to waft away!And hast thou seenThe passion-flower? It grows not in the woods,But midst the bright things brought from other climes.

Child. What! the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks,And light green tendrils?

Father. Thou hast mark’d it well.Yes! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower,As from a land of spirits! To mine eyeThose faint, wan petals--colourless, and yetNot white, but shadowy--with the mystic lines(As letters of some wizard language gone)Into their vapour-like transparence wrought,Bear something of a strange solemnity,Awfully lovely!--and the Christian’s thoughtLoves, in their cloudy penciling, to findDread symbols of his Lord’s last mortal pangsSet by God’s hand--the coronal of thorns--The cross, the wounds--with other meanings deepWhich I will teach thee when we meet againThat flower, the chosen for the martyr’s wreath,The Saviour’s holy flower.But let us pause:Now have we reach’d the very inmost heartOf the old wood. How the green shadows closeInto a rich, clear, summer darkness round,A luxury of gloom! Scarce doth one ray,Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, stealO’er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades;Or if it doth, ’tis with a mellow’d hueOf glow-worm colour’d light.Here, in the daysOf pagan visions, would have been a placeFor worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaksA small, fair gleaming temple might have thrownThe quivering image of its Dorian shaftsOn the stream’s bosom, or a sculptured form,Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,Have bow’d its head o’er that dark crystal down,Drooping with beauty, as a lily droopsUnder bright rain. But we, my child, are hereWith God, our God, a Spirit, who requiresHeart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;And this high knowledge--deep, rich, vast enoughTo fill and hallow all the solitude--Makes consecrated earth where’er we move,Without the aid of shrines.What! dost thou feelThe solemn whispering influence of the sceneOppressing thy young heart, that thou dost drawMore closely to my side, and clasp my handFaster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!’Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervadesThe stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,Where brooding violets mantle this green slopeWith dark exuberance; and beneath these plumesOf wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holdsIn its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright,The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile,And let me hear once more the woodland verseI taught thee late--’twas made for such a scene.Child speaks.

‘There are the aspens with their silvery leaves,’” etc.Blackwood’s Magazine, Dec. 1848.