The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Forest Vine

The Forest Vine
It grew in the old wilderness—The vine Is linked with thoughts of sunny Italy, Or the fair hills of France, or the sweet vales Where flows the Guadalquivir. But this grew Where, as the sunlight look'd through lacing boughs, The shadows of the stern, tall, primal wood Fell round us, and across the silent flood, That wash'd the deep ravine. The pauseless lapse Of ages had beheld no change in all The aspect of that scene; or but such change, As Time himself had made; the slow decay Of the old patriarch oaks, and as they fell And moulder'd on the earth, the silent growth Of the young sturdy stem, that rear'd itself To stretch its branches in their former place. The wild flower stretch'd its tender petals out, Lending strange brightness to the forest gloom; The fleet deer toss'd his antlers to the breeze, Graceful and shy; and when the sun went down, The tangled thicket rustled to the tread Of the gaunt wolf—just as in former years. But the red hunter was no longer there; And the bright flowers were no more twined to deck The brow of Indian maid.

We stood beside A fallen oak; its aged limbs were spread Prone to the earth, uptorn by the rude wind, And perishing on the soil that once had fed Their giant strength: clinging around its roots And its decaying trunk, a grape-vine wreathed Its fresh green foliage, draping the still grave With its luxuriance—meet garniture For such a sepulchre! a sepulchre most meet To wrap the bones of the old forest race! For we had checked our idle wanderings To gaze upon the relics of the dead— The dead of other ages! they who trod When that fallen tree was fresh in its green prime,— The earth that it now cumber'd; they who once In savage freedom bounded through the wild, And quaff'd the limpid spring, or shot along The swift canoe upon yon rushing wave, Or yell'd the fierce and horrid war whoop round, Or gather'd to the council fire, or sprang With proud firm step to mingle in the dance, And vaunt of their own triumphs;—there they lie, Brittle and time-blanch'd fragments! bones—dry bones! Prison'd for lingering years beneath the sod, And now that the strong wind hath torn away The bars of their dark cell, restored again To the clear sunshine. It seems strange to think That those wan relics once were clothed with life— Breathing and living flesh—and sprang away O'er the green hills at morning, and at eve, Return'd again to the low cabin home, And found its shadows happiness.

That dust— Gather some to thee—the keen eye can mark No difference from that spread widely round— The common earth we tread upon; yet this Once help'd to form the garment of a mind Once wrapp'd a human heart, and thrill'd with all The emotions of man's nature; love and hate, Sweet hope and stern revenge—ay, even faith In an undying world.

So let them rest! That faith, erring and dark as it might be, Was yet not wholly vain. We may not know Of what the dark grave hideth; but the soul, Immortal as eternity itself, Is in the hands of One most merciful.