Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 34 1833.pdf/7



Move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.

Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves Trembling, for ever trembling! though the lime And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood Were all one picture!

Father.Hast thou heard, my boy, The peasant's legend of that quivering tree?

Child.No, father; doth he say the fairies dance Amidst the branches?

Father.Oh! a cause more deep, More solemn, far, the rustic doth assign To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves! The cross, he deems, the blessed cross, whereon The meek Redeemer bowed his head to death, Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour, Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe, Making them tremulous, when not a breeze Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes The light lines of the shining gossamer.

Child, (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father?

Father.Nay, my child, We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, With something of a lingering love I read The characters, by that mysterious hour, Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man In visionary days; and thence thrown back On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign Of the great sacrifice which won us Heaven, The Woodman and the Mountaineer can trace On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so! They do not wisely that, with hurried hand, Would pluck these salutary fancies forth From their strong soil within the Peasant's breast, And scatter them—far, far too fast!—away As worthless weeds:—Oh! little do we know When they have soothed, when saved! But come, dear boy! My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee. Come,—let us search for violets.

Child.Know you not More of the legends which the Woodmen tell Amidst the trees and flowers?

Father.Wilt thou know more? Bring then the folding leaf, with dark brown stains, There—by the mossy roots of yon old beech, Midst the rich tuft of cowslips—see'st thou not? There is a spray of woodbine from the tree Just bending o'er it, with a wild bee's weight.