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 times 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!