Classic Poem

I

There was a wood, it does not change,
Not while the thrush pipes through its glades,
And she who did its thickets range
Has willed her sunbeam to its shades.
There still the lily weaves a net
With bluebell, primrose, violet.

II

The wood is what it was of old,
A timber-farm where wildflowers grow.
There woodman's axe is never cold,
That lays the oaks and beeches low.
But though the hand of man deface,
The lily ever grows in grace.

III

Of loving natures, proudly shy,
The stock-doves sojourn in the tree,
With breasts of feathered cloud and sky,
And notes of soft though tuneless glee:
Hid in the leaves they take a spring,
And crush the stillness with their wing.

IV

The wood is deep-boughed, and its glade
Has ruts of waggon to and fro;
Yet where the print of wheel is made
The bracken ventures still to grow;
And where the foot of man may goad,
The ants are toiling with their load.

V

The wood, even old in olden days,
No longer alters with the year.
The gnarled boughs, to Nature's ways
Inured, their honours mildly bear.
And she who there has fixed her beam
Is still remembered as a dream.

VI

There many a legend of the wood
Has hovered from the olden time,
When, with their sooths and sayings good,
Men told not of its youth or prime.
The hollow trunks were hollow then,
And honoured like the bones of men.

VII

There like nine brethren, Nature's own,
Nine trees within a circle stand,
And to a temple's shape have grown,
Each trunk a column tall and grand.
And, there, a raven-oak uprears
Its dome that whitens with the years.

VIII

'Mid these, while on the earth at play,
She, the true beam of living spring,
The playmate of the lily's ray,
Learnt of the piping thrush to sing.
The lily's leaves were then her nest,
Its buds half-nestled in her breast.

IX

To her whose beam was lily-bright
'Neath brakes that hide the sky above,
A primrose seemed a holy sight:
Loveless itself, it taught her love.
It was her welcome to the bowers,
And lured her fingers to its flowers.

X

Not yet to her was Nature's age
In gnarled and hollow shapes revealed:
The buds and leaflets stamped her page,
And all that Death could say concealed.
To gnarled and hollow Nature cold,
She had not caught the sense of old.

XI

When folk who gossiped thereabout
Asked the child's name, — the child so pale, —
With looks that gave a sweetness out,
She answered, " Lily of the Vale."
Not then her eyes had dew-drops shed
In early tribute to the dead.

XII

Alas! her parents came to die;
She was not then too young to weep.
Through all the wood was heard her cry;
Till with her sobs she fell asleep,
And o'er her slumber shot those beams
That with a shiver visit dreams.

XIII

The lilies in their nest had died,
Violets were closed, their petals crushed,
The bracken-stalks were parched and dried,
The flowers she loved no longer blushed.
Towards sorrow did her soul ascend;
Her dawn of joys was at an end.

XIV

The oak spread o'er her troubled sleep,
She sees a gnarled and hollow form
Whose riven branches seem to creep, —
Loosed from their long-enchanted storm,
And like a phantom in the air
It sets on her its naked stare.

XV

That oak she oft had seen before,
And in its empty cell had played,
But felt not it was bald and hoar
With the green ivy o'er it laid.
Now have those thoughtless moments flown
And with the oak she is alone.

XVI

Then she beheld o'ersnowed with age,
Her grandsire trembling in the wind,
Smiling on her, his heritage,
The child his son had left behind.
Old was she now, for she could see
Her grandsire aged like the tree.

XVII

As flowers her eager heart once fired
With love for things that came and passed,
These visions in her soul inspired
An awe of sadder things that last:
The sire by age and trouble bent,
The tree by storm and lightning rent.

XVIII

Sleep left her, but her startled gaze
Met not the sire beside the oak
There standing in its leafless maze
As in her dream, when she awoke.
Where was the sire? She could not see
The face that smiled beside the tree.

XIX

And then she towards the cottage ran,
There was the sire in his retreat,
There was he still, — the aged man, —
Calm-sitting on his mossy seat,
And of her dream, as true, she spoke
While resting 'neath the raven-oak.

XX

He told her how the raven reared
Her young ones on the leafy crest,
And now the oak by lightning seared
Could give no shelter for a nest.
With this her simple thoughts he led
To how the bird the prophet fed.

XXI

Then did she feel that he was poor;
That on a scanty crust he fared.
She longed to see within his door
The frugal meal she oft had shared,
And prayed the raven in her need
To do for them the loving deed.

XXII

Through every grove she poured her lay,
This drooping Lily of the Vale;
As through the brakes she took her way
She told the thrush her touching tale,
And bade it in her service press
The bird that waits on man's distress.

XXIII

So, like a creature on the wing,
She spoke her griefs to all she met.
The thrush had taught her how to sing
Soft notes to all things living set;
Conies that peeped from out the grass,
They had no fear and let her pass.

XXIV

She thought the thrush with mellow song
Would answer to her simple strain,
She thought the other birds would throng
To bring the raven back again,
But not to her the raven sped
Who brought from heaven the prophet's bread.

XXV

Meantime her grandsire day by day
Was hungered, hopeless though he smiled,
For he would hide his pains away
From her, the watchful, loving child.
She saw him sink upon his bed
Not by the kindly raven fed.

XXVI

Again through brake and bush she flew;
Beyond the wood there lay the field
And paths unknown broke on her view;
Must she to childish terror yield?
She looked at heaven and saw its scope,
Taught by her mother there was hope.

XXVII

And then she to her mother said,
" Can God the prophet's raven spare?
For grandsire lies upon his bed,
And cannot earn his daily fare.
All father's work he leaves undone,
And says I soon shall be alone."

XXVIII

Then she went on and seemed to tread
The buoyant air that past her blew,
But cast her looks about in dread,
As o'er the footless path she flew.
At last she stayed to breathe her fear, —
All was so strange, and no one near.

XXIX

And then she to her father said,
" Can God the prophet's raven spare?
For grandsire lies upon his bed,
And cannot earn his daily fare.
He leaves the work you left undone,
And says I soon shall be alone."

XXX

Her slack'ning pace now plainly told
The way was long for timid feet.
She felt her heart no longer bold:
Oft she looked back her wood to greet.
Her wood from sight a moment gone,
She felt herself indeed alone.

XXXI

She stood where hills and valleys blend;
One struggle more, and heaven seemed nigh.
Beyond where fields and woods ascend,
She saw a mansion towering high,
A noble lady's home, that seemed
To her the heaven of which she dreamed.

XXXII

" Could I, " she thought, " that hill ascend,
Then should I see the lady's face.
She lives above, where troubles end,
And I have found her heavenly place.
God gives her plenty for the poor,
Who come home laden from her door."

XXXIII

She looked till flashed across her dreams
A sight that all her spirit fired;
A form behind the window gleams, —
Could it be she so long desired?
Through windows in that stately pile,
She thought she saw a human smile.

XXXIV

And then she to the lady said,
" Can God the prophet's raven spare?
For grandsire lies upon his bed,
And cannot earn his daily fare.
All father's work he leaves undone,
And says I soon shall be alone."

XXXV

The mansion stood against the sun:
There long she looked for her reply.
The ball of fire whose course had run,
Filled with its red the western sky,
'Twas awful to her childish sight:
She turned her troubled steps for flight.

XXXVI

Dared she but enter at the gate
To reach that mansion vast and fair,
Then could she all her tale relate
To that sweet lady dwelling there.
But all her little courage fled:
With fainting steps she homeward sped.

XXXVII

First slowly, then with swifter pace,
She outran terror at her heels,
As if to win with Death the race,
Whose shroud now brushing by she feels.
She starts at every rugged bank,
For with the sun her spirit sank.

XXXVIII

The orb, yet vast beyond the height,
Had set more early in the wood;
But o'er the trees the lingering light
Spread floating in a rosy flood.
The birds sank one by one to rest,
As pale and paler grew the west.

XXXIX

She spied her cot, O vision sweet!
A rushlight through the lattice flamed,
And threw its radiance at her feet,
As it the grudging twilight shamed.
Through diamond panes a glimpse to catch,
She held her finger on the latch.

XL

No sound, no breath she heard above,
Where grandsire in the garret lay.
But one was there whose looks of love,
" Poor little orphan," seemed to say.
She knew the chaplain's kindly face;
The bearer of the lady's grace.

XLI

" Where hast thou been, my darling maid?
Reply to one who likes thee well."
" To fetch the raven home," she said;
" And him my grandsire's wants to tell.
I stood beneath the raven-tree
And found no bird to succour me."

XLII

" Why call the raven to thy door,
Thy little heart's distress to share?"
" Because," said she, " the sire is poor,
And has not earned his daily fare.
All father's work he leaves undone,
And says I soon shall be alone."

XLIII

" To kiss thee, child, he would have stayed,
For oft he called thee to his side.
Where didst thou wander, little maid?"
" I went across the world so wide.
I looked at heaven and saw its scope,
Taught by my mother there was hope.

XLIV

" I looked for mother in the sky:
She taught me there my wants to tell;
I looked for father standing by,
For both among the happy dwell;
I cried to them with heart of care,
Can God the prophet's raven spare?

XLV

" Then I came nigh a stately pile,
Where those who ask seek not in vain.
I looked, and saw a human smile,
And thought a lady looked again.
Through windows I beheld her face,
As she looked from her heavenly place.

XLVI

" And then I to the lady said,
" Can God the prophet's raven spare?
For grandsire lies upon his bed,
And has not earned his daily fare.
My father's work he leaves undone,
And says I soon shall be alone. " "

XLVII

" Thou art not all alone, my child;
Thy griefs that righteous lady hears:
She loves a spirit undefiled;
Her heart is open to thy tears.
Thy father's work at last is done,
And thou shalt never be alone.