Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

  That sometimes murmur’d overhead,

  And sometimes underground.

  Amongst the leaves it seem’d to sigh,

  Amid the boughs to moan;

  It mutter’d in the stem, and then

  The roots took up the tone;

  As if beneath the dewy grass

  The Dead began to groan.

  No breeze there was to stir the leaves;

  No bolts that tempests launch,

  To rend the trunk or rugged bark;

  No gale to bend the branch;

  No quake of earth to heave the roots,

  That stood so stiff and staunch.

  No bird was preening up aloft,

  To rustle with its wing;

  No squirrel, in its sport or fear,

  From bough to bough to spring;

  The solid bole

  Had ne’er a hole

  To hide a living thing!

  No scooping hollow cell to lodge

  A furtive beast or fowl,

  The marten, bat,

  Or forest cat —

  That nightly loves to prowl,

  Nor ivy nook so apt to shroud

  The moping, snoring owl.

  But still the sound was in my ear,

  A sad and solemn sound,

  That sometimes murmur’d overhead,

  And sometimes underground —

  ’Twas in a shady Avenue

  Where lofty Elms abound.

  O hath the Dryad still a tongue

  In this ungenial clime?

  Have Sylvan Spirits still a voice

  As in the classic prime —

  To make the forest voluble,

  As in the olden time?

  The olden time is dead and gone;

  Its years have fill’d their sum —

  And e’en in Greece — her native

  Greece —

  The Sylvan Nymph is dumb —

  From ash, and beech, and aged oak,

  No classic whispers come.

  From Poplar, Pine, and drooping

  Birch,

  And fragrant Linden Trees;

  No living sound

  E’er hovers round,

  Unless the vagrant breeze,

  The music of the merry bird,

  Or hum of busy bees.

  But busy bees forsake the Elm

  That bears no bloom aloft —

  The Finch was in the hawthorn-bush,

  The Blackbird in the croft;

  And among the firs the brooding Dove,

  That else might murmur soft.

  Yet still I heard that solemn sound,

  And sad it was to boot,

  From ev’ry overhanging bough,

  And each minuter shoot;

  From rugged trunk and mossy rind,

  And from the twisted root.

  From these, a melancholy moan;

  From those, a dreary sigh;

  As if the boughs were wintry bare,

  And wild winds sweeping by —

  Whereas the smallest fleecy cloud

  Was steadfast in the sky.

  No sign or touch of stirring air

  Could either sense observe —

  The zephyr had not breath enough

  The thistle-down to swerve,

  Or force the filmy gossamers

  To take another curve.

  In still and silent slumber hush’d

  All Nature seem’d to be:

  From heaven above, or earth beneath,

  No whisper came to me —

  Except the solemn sound and sad

  From that Mysterious Tree!

  A hollow, hollow, hollow sound,

  As is that dreamy roar —

  When distant billows boil and bound

  Along a shingly shore —

  But the ocean brim was far aloof,

  A hundred miles or more.

  No murmur of the gusty sea,

  No tumult of the beach,

  However they may foam and fret,

  The bounded sense could reach —

  Methought the trees in mystic tongue

  Were talking each to each! —

  Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales

  Of greenwood love or guilt,

  Of whisper’d vows

  Beneath their boughs;

  Or blood obscurely spilt;

  Or of that near-hand Mansion House

  A Royal Tudor built.

  Perchance, of booty won or shared

  Beneath the starry cope —

  Or where the suicidal wretch —

  Hung up the fatal rope;

  Or Beauty kept an evil tryste,

  Insnared by Love and Hope.

  Of graves, perchance, untimely scoop’d

  At midnight dark and dank —

  And what is underneath the sod

  Whereon the grass is rank —

  Of old intrigues,

  And privy leagues,

  Tradition leaves in blank.

  Of traitor lips that mutter’d plots —

  Of Kin who fought and fell —

  God knows the undiscover’d schemes,

  The arts and acts of Hell,

  Perform’d long generations since,

  If trees had tongues to tell!

  With wary eyes, and ears alert,

  As one who walks afraid,

  I wander’d down the dappled path

  Of mingled light and shade —

  How sweetly gleam’d that arch of blue

  Beyond the green arcade!

  How cheerly shone the glimpse of

  Heav’n

  Beyond that verdant aisle!

  All overarch’d with lofty elms,

  That quench’d the light, the while,

  As dim and chill

  As serves to fill

  Some old Cathedral pile! —

  And many a gnarled trunk was there,

  That ages long had stood,

  Till Time had wrought them into shapes

  Like Pan’s fantastic brood;

  Or still more foul and hideous forms

  That Pagans carve in wood!

  A crouching Satyr lurking here —

  And there a Goblin grim —

  As staring full of demon life

  As Gothic sculptor’s whim —

  A marvel it had scarcely been

  To hear a voice from him!

  Some whisper from that horrid mouth

  Of strange, unearthly tone;

  Or wild infernal laugh, to chill

  One’s marrow in the bone.

  But no —— it grins like rigid Death,

  And silent as a stone!

  As silent as its fellows be,

  For all is mute with them —

  The branch that climbs the leafy roof —

  The rough and mossy stem —

  The crooked root,

  And tender shoot,

  Where hangs the dewy gem.

  One mystic Tree alone there is,

  Of sad and solemn sound —

  That sometimes murmurs overhead,

  And sometimes underground —

  In all that shady Avenue,

  Where lofty Elms abound. —

  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 dell

  Pursues his daily toil;

  As witness many a prostrate trunk,

  Bereft of leafy spoil,

  Hard by its wooden stump, whereon

  The adder loves to coil.

  Alone he works — his ringing blows

  Have banish’d bird and beast;

  The Hind and Fawn have canter’d off

  A hundred yards at least;

  And on the maple’s lofty to
p,

  The linnet’s song has ceased.

  No eye his labour overlooks,

  Or when he takes his rest; —

  Except the timid thrush that peeps

  Above her secret nest,

  Forbid by love to leave the young

  Beneath her speckled breast.

  The Woodman’s heart is in his work,

  His axe is sharp and good:

  With sturdy arm and steady aim

  He smites the gaping wood;

  From distant rocks

  His lusty knocks —

  Re-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 been

  The Timber Tree to fell.

  Through Summer’s parching sultriness.

  And Winter’s freezing cold,

  From sapling youth —

  To virile growth,

  And Age’s rigid mould,

  His energetic axe hath rung

  Within that Forest old.

  Aloft, upon his poising steel

  The vivid sunbeams glance —

  About his head and round his feet

  The forest shadows dance;

  And bounding from his russet coat

  The acorn drops askance. —

  His face is like a Druid’s face,

  With wrinkles furrow’d deep,

  And tann’d by scorching suns as brown

  As 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 still

  With right good will,

  As if to build an Ark!

  Oh! well within His fatal path

  The fearful Tree might quake

  Through every fibre, twig, and leaf,

  With aspen tremour shake;

  Through trunk and root,

  And branch and shoot,

  A low complaining make! —

  Oh! well to Him the Tree might breathe

  A sad and solemn sound,

  A sigh that murmur’d overhead,

  And groans from underground;

  As in that shady Avenue

  Where 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 leaf

  Makes no unusual stir.

  The Pines — those old gigantic Pines,

  That writhe — recalling soon

  The famous Human Group that writhes

  With Snakes in wild festoon —

  In ramous wrestlings interlaced

  A Forest Lâocoon —

  Like Titans of primeval girth

  By 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 stands

  So like a man of sin,

  Who, frantic, flings his arms abroad

  To feel the Worm within —

  For all that gesture, so intense,

  It makes no sort of din! —

  An universal silence reigns

  In rugged bark or peel,

  Except that very trunk which rings

  Beneath the biting steel —

  Meanwhile the Woodman plies his axe

  With unrelenting zeal!

  No rustic song is on his tongue,

  No whistle on his lips;

  But with a quiet thoughtfulness

  His trusty tool he grips,

  And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out

  The bright and flying chips.

  Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint

  He spreads the fatal gash;

  Till lo! the remnant fibres rend,

  With harsh and sudden crash,

  And on the dull resounding turf

  The jarring branches lash!

  Oh! now the Forest Trees may sigh,

  The Ash, the Poplar tall,

  The Elm, the Birch, the drooping Beech,

  The Aspens — one and all,

  With solemn groan

  And hollow moan

  Lament a comrade’s fall!

  A goodly Elm, of noble birth,

  That, thrice the human span —

  While on their variegated course

  The 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 prone

  Beneath th’ Eternal’s nod,

  In all its giant bulk and length

  It lies along the sod! —

  Ay, now the Forest Trees may grieve

  And make a common moan

  Around that patriarchal trunk

  So newly overthrown;

  And with a murmur recognize

  A doom to be their own!

  The Echo sleeps: the idle axe,

  A disregarded tool,

  Lies crushing with its passive weight

  The toad’s reputed stool —

  The Woodman wipes his dewy brow

  Within the shadows cool. —

  No Zephyr stirs: the ear may catch

  The smallest insect-hum;

  But on the disappointed sense

  No 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!

  Part III.

  The deed is done: the Tree is low

  That stood so long and firm;

  The Woodman and his axe are gone,

  His toil has found its term;

  And where he wrought the speckled Thrush

  Securely hunts the worm.

  The Cony from the sandy bank

  Has run a rapid race,

  Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern,

  To seek the open space;

  And on its haunches sits erect

  To clean its furry face.

  The dappled Fawn is close at hand,

  The Hind is browsing near,

  And on the Larch’s lowest bough

  The Ousel whistles clear;

  But checks the note

  Within its throat,

  As choked with sudden fear! —

  With sudden fear her wormy quest

  The thrush abruptly quits —

  Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern

  The startled Cony flits;

  And on the Larch’s lowest bough

  No more the Ousel sits.

  With sudden fear

  The dappled Deer

  Effect a swift escape; —

  But well might bolder creatures start,

  And fly, or stand agape,

  With rising hair, and curdled blood,

  To see so grim a Shape!

  The very sky turns pale above;

  The earth grows dark beneath;

  The human Terror thrills with cold,

  And draws a shorter breath —

  An universal panic owns

  The dread approach of DEATH!

  With silent pace, as shadows come,

  And dark as shadows be,

 
; The grisly Phantom takes his stand

  Beside the fallen Tree,

  And scans it with his gloomy eyes,

  And laughs with horrid glee —

  A dreary laugh and desolate,

  Where mirth is void and null,

  As hollow as its echo sounds

  Within the hollow skull —

  ‘Whoever laid this tree along,

  His hatchet was not dull!

  ‘The human arm and human tool

  Have done their duty well!

  But after sound of ringing axe

  Must sound the ringing knell;

  When Elm or Oak

  Have felt the stroke

  My turn it is to fell!

  ‘No passive unregarded tree,

  A senseless thing of wood,

  Wherein the sluggish sap ascends

  To swell the vernal bud —

  But conscious, moving, breathing trunks

  That throb with living blood!

  ‘No forest Monarch yearly clad

  In mantle green or brown;

  That unrecorded lives, and falls

  By hand of rustic clown —

  But Kings who don the purple robe,

  And wear the jewelled crown.

  ‘Ah! little recks the Royal mind,

  Within his Banquet Hall,

  While tapers shine and Music breathes

  And Beauty leads the Ball,

  He little recks the oaken plank

  Shall be his palace wall!

  ‘Ah, little dreams the haughty Peer,

  The while his Falcon flies —

  Or on the blood-bedabbled turf

  The antler’d quarry dies —

  That in his own ancestral Park

  The narrow dwelling lies!

  ‘But haughty Peer and mighty King

  One doom shall overwhelm!

  The oaken cell

  Shall lodge him well

  Whose sceptre ruled a realm —

  While he who never knew a home,

  Shall find it in the Elm! —

  ‘The tatter’d, lean, dejected wretch,

  Who begs from door to door,

  And dies within the cressy ditch,

  Or on the barren moor,

  The friendly Elm shall lodge and clothe

  That touseless man, and poor!