408 



SYLVAN SKETCHES. 



There is a ye>v tree, pride of Lorton Vale^ 



\rhich to this day stands single in the midst 



Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore. 



Not loth to furnish weapons in the hands 



Of Umfraville or Percy, ere they marched 



To Scotland's heaths, or those that crossed the sea 



And drew their sounding bows at Azincour ; 



Perhaps at earlier Cressy, or Poictiers. 



Of vast circumference, and gloom profound. 



This solitary tree ! a living thing 



Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 



Of form and aspect too magnificent 



To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 



Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale, 



Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 



Huge trunks ! arid each particular trunk a growth 



Of intertwisted fibres serpentine, 



Upcoiling, and inveterately convolved : 



Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks 



That threaten the profane ; a pillared shade, 



Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, 



By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 



Perennially ; — beneath whose sable roof 



Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked 



With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes 



May meet at noon-tide : Fear, and trembling hope. 



Silence and foresight — death the skeleton. 



And time the shadow, there to celebrate. 



As in a natural temple, scattered o'er 



With altars undisturbed of mossy stone. 



United worship ; or in mute repose 



To lie, and listen to the mountain-flood 



Murmuring from Gieramara's inmost caves." 



We cannot do better than conclude with this fine 

 sage from one of the finest poets of our time. 



THE END. 



Printed by T. Davison, Lombard-street, Whitefriars, London. 



