Part II

The Scene is changed! No green Arcade,No Trees all ranged a-row--But scatter'd like a beaten host,Dispersing to and fro;With here and there a sylvan corse,That fell before the foe.

The Foe that down in yonder dellPursues his daily toil;As witness many a prostrate trunk,Bereft of leafy spoil,Hard by its wooden stump, whereonThe adder loves to coil.

Alone he works--his ringing blowsHave banish'd bird and beast;The Hind and Fawn have canter'd offA hundred yards at least;And on the maple's lofty topThe linnet's song has ceased.

No eye his labor overlooks,Or when he takes his rest,Except the timid thrush that peepsAbove her secret nest,Forbid by love to leave the youngBeneath her speckled breast.

The Woodman's heart is in his work,His axe is sharp and good:With sturdy arm and steady aimHe smites the gaping wood;From distant rocksHis lusty knocksRe-echo many a rood.

His axe is keen, his arm is strong;The muscles serve him well;His years have reach'd an extra span,The number none can tell;But still his lifelong task has beenThe Timber Tree to fell.

Through Summer's parching sultriness,And Winter's freezing cold,From sapling youthTo virile growth.And Age's rigid mould,His energetic axe hath rungWithin that Forest old.

Aloft, upon his poising steelThe vivid sunbeams glance--About his head and round his feetThe forest shadows dance;And bounding from his russet coatThe acorn drops askance.

His face is like a Druid's face,With wrinkles furrow'd deep,And tann'd by scorching suns as brownAs corn that's ripe to reap;But the hair on brow, and cheek, and chin,Is white as wool of sheep.

His frame is like a giant's frame;His legs are long and stark;His arms like limbs of knotted yew;His hands like rugged bark;So he felleth stillWith right good will,As if to build an Ark!

Oh! well within His fatal pathThe fearful Tree might quakeThrough every fibre, twig, and leaf,With aspen tremor shake;Through trunk and root,And branch and shoot,A low complaining make!

Oh! well to Him the Tree might breatheA sad and solemn sound,A sigh that murmur'd overhead,And groans from underground;As in that shady AvenueWhere lofty Elms abound!

But calm and mute the Maple stands,The Plane, the Ash, the Fir,The Elm, the Beech, the drooping Birch,Without the least demur;And e'en the Aspen's hoary leafMakes no unusual stir.

The Pines--those old gigantic Pines,That writhe--recalling soonThe famous Human Group that writhesWith Snakes in wild festoon--In ramous wrestlings interlacedA Forest Laocoon--

Like Titans of primeval girthBy tortures overcome,Their brown enormous limbs they twine,Bedew'd with tears of gum--Fierce agonies that ought to yell,But, like the marble, dumb.

Nay, yonder blasted Elm that standsSo like a man of sin,Who, frantic, flings his arms abroadTo feel the Worm within--For all that gesture, so intense,It makes no sort of din!

An universal silence reignsIn rugged bark or peel,Except that very trunk which ringsBeneath the biting steel--Meanwhile the Woodman plies his axeWith unrelenting zeal!

No rustic song is on his tongue,No whistle on his lips;But with a quiet thoughtfulnessHis trusty tool he grips,And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking outThe bright and flying chips.

Stroke after stroke, with frequent dintHe spreads the fatal gash;Till, lo! the remnant fibres rend,With harsh and sudden crash,And on the dull resounding turfThe jarring branches lash!

Oh! now the Forest Trees may sigh,The Ash, the Poplar tall,The Elm, the Beech, the drooping Birch,The Aspens--one and all,With solemn groanAnd hollow moanLament a comrade's fall!

A goodly Elm, of noble girth,That, thrice the human span--While on their variegated courseThe constant Seasons ran--Through gale, and hail, and fiery bolt,Had stood erect as Man.

But now, like mortal Man himself,Struck down by hand of God,Or heathen Idol tumbled proneBeneath th' Eternal's nod,In all its giant bulk and lengthIt lies along the sod!

Ay, now the Forest Trees may grieveAnd make a common moanAround that patriarchal trunkSo newly overthrown;And with a murmur recognizeA doom to be their own!

The Echo sleeps: the idle axe,A disregarded tool,Lies crushing with its passive weightThe toad's reputed stool--The Woodman wipes his dewy browWithin the shadows cool.

No Zephyr stirs: the ear may catchThe smallest insect-hum;But on the disappointed senseNo mystic whispers come;No tone of sylvan sympathy,The Forest Trees are dumb.

No leafy noise, nor inward voice,No sad and solemn sound,That sometimes murmurs overhead,And sometimes underground;As in that shady Avenue,Where lofty Elms abound!