Chapter 2

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 jewell'd 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 houseless man and poor!

"Yea, this recumbent rugged trunk, That lies so long and prone, With many a fallen acorn-cup, And mast, and furry cone-- This rugged trunk shall hold its share Of mortal flesh and bone!

"A Miser hoarding heaps of gold, But pale with ague-fears-- A Wife lamenting love's decay, With secret cruel tears, Distilling bitter, bitter drops From sweets of former years--

"A Man within whose gloomy mind Offence had deeply sunk, Who out of fierce Revenge's cup Hath madly, darkly drunk-- Grief, Avarice, and Hate shall sleep Within this very trunk!

"This massy trunk that lies along, And many more must fall-- For the very knave Who digs the grave, The man who spreads the pall, And he who tolls the funeral bell, The Elm shall have them all!

"The tall abounding Elm that grows In hedgerows up and down; In field and forest, copse and park, And in the peopled town, With colonies of noisy rooks That nestle on its crown.

"And well th' abounding Elm may grow In field and hedge so rife, In forest, copse, and wooded park, And 'mid the city's strife, For, every hour that passes by Shall end a human life!"

The Phantom ends: the shade is gone; The sky is clear and bright; On turf, and moss, and fallen Tree, There glows a ruddy light; And bounding through the golden fern The Rabbit comes to bite.

The Thrush's mate beside her sits And pipes a merry lay; The Dove is in the evergreen; And on the Larch's spray The Fly-bird flutters up and down, To catch its tiny prey.

The gentle Hind and dappled Fawn Are coming up the glade; Each harmless furr'd and feather'd thing Is glad, and not afraid-- But on my sadden'd spirit still The Shadow leaves a shade.

A secret, vague, prophetic gloom, As though by certain mark I knew the fore-appointed Tree, Within whose rugged bark This warm and living frame shall find Its narrow house and dark.

That mystic Tree which breathed to me A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd overhead, And sometimes underground; Within that shady Avenue Where lofty Elms abound.

LEAR.

A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown, Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind-- For pity, my own tears have made me blind That I might never see my children's frown; And, may be, madness, like a friend, has thrown A folded fillet over my dark mind, So that unkindly speech may sound for kind-- Albeit I know not.--I am childish grown-- And have not gold to purchase wit withal-- I that have once maintain'd most royal state-- A very bankrupt now that may not call My child, my child--all beggar'd save in tears, Wherewith I daily weep an old man's fate, Foolish--and blind--and overcome with years!

SONNET.

My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace, As if he slept--forgetting his old speed: For, as in sunshine only we can read The march of minutes on the dial's face, So in the shadows of this lonely place There is no love, and Time is dead indeed. But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart, Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies, It seems we only meet to tear apart, With aching hands and lingering of eyes. Alas, alas! that we must learn hours' flight By the same light of love that makes them bright!

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread-- Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work--work--work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's Oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

"Work--work--work Till the brain begins to swim; Work--work--work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch--stitch--stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own-- It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!"

"Work--work--work!" My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread--and rags. That shattered roof--and this naked floor-- A table--a broken chair-- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there!

"Work--work--work! From weary chime to chime, Work--work--work-- As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand.

"Work--work--work, In the dull December light, And work--work--work, When the weather is warm and bright-- While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet-- With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread-- Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-- Would that its tone could reach the Rich!-- She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

THE PAUPER'S CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Full of drink and full of meat, On our SAVIOUR'S natal day, CHARITY'S perennial treat; Thus I heard a Pauper say:-- "Ought not I to dance and sing Thus supplied with famous cheer? Heigho! I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year.

"After labor's long turmoil, Sorry fare and frequent fast, Two-and-fifty weeks of toil, Pudding-time is come at last! But are raisins high or low, Flour and suet cheap or dear? Heigho! I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year.

"Fed upon the coarsest fare Three hundred days and sixty-four, But for _one_ on viands rare, Just as if I wasn't poor! Ought not I to bless my stars, Warden, clerk, and overseer? Heigho! I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year.

"Treated like a welcome guest, One of Nature's social chain, Seated, tended on, and press'd-- But when shall I be press'd again, Twice to pudding, thrice to beef, A dozen times to ale and beer? Heigho! I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year.

"Come to-morrow how it will; Diet scant and usage rough, Hunger once has had its fill, Thirst for once has had enough, But shall I ever dine again? Or see another feast appear? Heigho! I only know-- Christmas comes but once a year!

"Frozen cares begin to melt, Hopes revive and spirits flow-- Feeling as I have not felt Since a dozen months ago-- Glad enough to sing a song-- To-morrow shall I volunteer? Heigho! I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year.

"Bright and blessed is the time, Sorrows end and joys begin, While the bells with merry chime Ring the Day of Plenty in! But the happy tide to hail, With a sigh or with or a tear, Heigho! I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year!"

THE HAUNTED HOUSE[18]

[Footnote 18: From the opening number of _Hood's Magazine_, January 1844. Written to accompany an engraving from a painting by Thomas Creswick, bearing the same title.]

A ROMANCE.

"A jolly place, said he, in days of old, But something ails it now: the spot is curst." WORDSWORTH.