Elizabeth Oakes Smith: Verses about Forest

AN acorn fell from an old oak tree,
And lay on the frosty ground
'O, what shall the fate of the acorn be!'
Was whispered all around,
By low-toned voices, chiming sweet,
Like a floweret's bell when swung
And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet,
And the beetl's hoofs up-rung—

For the woodland Fays came sweeping past
In the pale autumnal ray,
Where the forest leaves were falling fast,
And the acorn quivering lay;
They came to tell what its fate should be,
Though life was unrevealed;
For life is holy mystery,
Where'er it is conceal'd.

They came with gifts that should life bestow'
The dew and the living air—
The bane that should work its deadlv wo—
Was found with the Fairies there.
In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought,
And the worm in the rose-leaf roll'd,
And many things with destruction fraught,
That its fate were quickly told.

But it needed not; for a blessed fate
Was the acorn's doomed to be—
The spirits of earth should its birth-time wait,
And watch o'er its destiny.
To a little sprite was the task assigned
To bury the acorn deep,
Away from the frost and searching wind,
When they through the forest sweep.

I laughed outright at the small thing's toil,
As he bow'd beneath the spade,
And he balanced his gossamer wings the while
To look in the pit he made.
A thimble's depth it was scarcely deep,
When the spade aside he threw,
And roll'd the acorn away to sleep
In the hush of dropping dew.

The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air,
And its gush of woodland song;
The dew came down, and the rain was there,
And the sunshine rested long;
Then softly the black earth turn'd aside,
The old leaf arching o'er,
And up, where the last year's leaf was dried,
Came the acorn-shell once more.

With coil'd stem, and a pale green hue,
It look'd but a feeble thing;
Then deeply its roots abroad it threw,
Its strength from the earth to bring.
The woodland sprites are gathering round,
Rejoiced that tile task is done—
That another life from the noisome ground
Is up to the pleasant sun.

The young child pass'd with a careless tread,
And the germ had well-nigh crush'd,
But a spider, launch'd on her airy thread,
The cheek of the stripling brush'd.
He little knew, as he started back,
How the acorn's fate was hung
On the very point in the spider's track
Where the web on his cheek was flung.

The autumn came, and it stood alone,
And bow'd as the wind pass'd by—
The wind that utter'd its dirge-like moan
In the old oak sere and dry;
And the hollow branches creak'd and sway'd
But they bent not to the blast,
For the stout oak tree, where centuries play'd
Was sturdy to the last.

A schoolboy beheld the lithe young shoot,
And his knife was instant out,
To sever the stalk from the spreading root,
And scatter the buds about;
To peel the bark in curious rings,
And many a notch and ray,
To beat the air till it whizzing sings,
Then idly cast away.

His hand was stay'd; he knew not why:
'Twas a presence breathed around—
A pleading from the deep-blue sky,
And up from the teeming ground.
It told of the care that had lavish'd been
In sunshine and in dew—
Of the many things that had wrought a screen
When peril around it grew.

It told of the oak that once had bow'd,
As feeble a thing to see;
But now, when the storm was raging loud,
It wrestled mightily.
There's a deeper thought on the schoolboy's brow,
A new love at his heart,
And he ponders much, as with footsteps slow
He turns him to depart.

Up grew the twig, with a vigour bold,
In the shade of the parent tree,
And the old oak knew that his doom was told,
When the sapling sprang so free.
Then the fierce winds came, and they raging tore
The hollow limbs away;
And the damp moss crept from the earthy floor
Around the trunk, time-worn and gray.

The young oak grew, and proudly grew,
For its roots were deep and strong;
And a shadow broad on the earth it threw,
And the sunlight linger'd long
On its glossy leaf, where the flickering light
Was flung to the evening sky;
And the wild bird came to its airy height,
And taught her young to fly.

In acorn-time came the truant boy,
With a wild and eager look,
And he mark'd the tree with a wondering joy,
As the wind the great limbs shook.
He look'd where the moss on the north side grew,
The gnarled arms outspread,
The solemn shadow the huge tree threw,
As it tower'd above his head:

And vague-like fears the boy surround,
In the shadow of that tree;
So growing up from the darksome ground,
Like a giant mystery.
His heart beats quick to the squirrel's tread
On the withered leaf and dry,
And he lifts not up his awe-struck head
As the eddying wind sweeps by.

And regally the stout oak stood,
In its vigour and its pride;
A monarch own'd in the solemn wood,
With a sceptre spreading wide—
No more in the wintry blast to bow,
Or rock in the summer breeze;
But draped in green, or star-like snow,
Reign king of the forest trees.

And a thousand years it firmly grew,
And a thousand blasts defied;
And, mighty in strength, its broad arms threw
A shadow dense and wide.
It grew where the rocks were bursting out
From the thin and heaving soil—
Where the ocean's roar, and the sailor's shout,
Were mingled in wild turmoil—

Where the far-off sound of the restless deep
Came up with a booming swell;
And the white foam dash'd to the rocky steep,
But it loved the tumult well.
Then its huge limbs creak'd in the midnight air,
And joined in the rude uproar:
For it loved the storm and the lightning's glare,
And the sound of the breaker's roar.

The bleaching bones of the seabird's prey
Were heap'd on the rocks below;
And the bald-head eagle, fierce and gray,
Look'd off from its topmost bough.
Where its shadow lay on the quiet wave
The light boat often swung,
And the stout ship, saved from the ocean-grave,
Her cable round it flung.

Change came to the mighty things of earth—
Old empires pass'd away;
Of the generations that had birth,
O Death! where, where were they?
Yet fresh and green the brave oak stood,
Nor dreamed it of decay,
Though a thousand times in the autumn wood
Its leaves on the pale earth lay.

A sound comes down in the forest trees,
An echoing from the hill;
It floats far off on the summer breeze,
And the shore resounds it shrill.
Lo! the monarch tree no more shall stand
Like a watch-tower of the main—
The strokes fall thick from the woodman's hand,
And its falling shakes the plain.

The stout old oak—! ‘Twas a worthy tree,
And the builder marked it out;
And he smiled its angled limbs to see,
As he measured the trunk about.
Already to him was a gallant bark
Careering the rolling deep,
And in sunshine, calm, or tempest dark,
Her way she will proudly keep.

The chisel clinks, and the hammer rings,
And the merry jest goes round;
While he who longest and loudest sings
Is the stoutest workman found.
With jointed rib, and trunnel'd plank
The work goes gayly on,
And light-spoke oaths, when the glass they drank,
Are heard till the task is done.

She sits on the stocks, the skeleton ship,
With her oaken ribs all bare,
And the child looks up with parted lip,
As it gathers fuel there—
With brimless hat, the bare-foot boy
Looks round with strange amaze.
And dreams of a sailor's life of joy
Are mingling in that gaze.

With graceful waist and carvings brave
The trim hull waits the sea
And she proudly stoops to the crested wave,
While round go the cheerings three.
Her prow swells up from the yeasty deep,
Where it plunged in foam and spray;
And the glad waves gathering round her sweep
And buoy her in their play.

Thou wert nobly rear'd, O heart of oak!
In the sound of the ocean roar,
Where the surging wave o'er the rough rock broke
And bellow'd along the shore—
And how wilt thou in the storm rejoice,
With the wind through spar and shroud,
To hear a sound like the forest voice,
When the blast was raging loud!

With snow-white sail, and streamer gay,
She sits like an ocean-sprite,
Careering on in her trackless way,
In sunshine or dark midnight:
Her course is laid with fearless skill,
For brave hearts man the helm;
And the joyous winds her canvass fill
Shall the wave the stout ship whelm?

On, on she goes, where icebergs roll,
Like floating cities by;
Where meteors flash by the northern pole,
And the merry dancers fly;
Where the glittering light is backward flung
From icy tower and dome,
And the frozen shrouds are gaily hung
With gems from the ocean foam.

On the Indian se. was her shadow cast,
As it lay like molten gold,
And her pendant shroud and towering mast
Seem'd twice on the waters told.
The idle canvass slowly swung
As the spicy breeze went by,
And strange, rare music around her rung
From the palm-tree growing nigh.

O, gallant ship, thou didst bear with thee
The gay and the breaking heart,
And weeping eyes look'd out to see
Thy white-spread sails depart.
And when the rattling casement told
Of many a perill'd ship,
The anxious wife her babes would fold,
And pray with trembling lip.

The petrel wheeled in her stormy flight;
The wind piped shrill and high;
On the topmast sat a pale blue light,
That flickered not to the eye:
The black cloud came like a banner down,
And down came the shrieking blast;
The quivering ship on her beams is thrown,
And gone are helm and mast.

Helmless, but on before the gale,
She ploughs the deep-troughed wave:
A gurgling sound— a phrenzied wail—
And the ship hath found a grave.
And thus is the fate of the acorn told,
That fell from the old oak tree,
And the woodland Fays in the frosty mould
Preserved for its destiny.

'Then trim the lights, my strange, strange child,
And let the fagots glow;
For more of these mysterious things
I fear, yet long, to know.
I glory in thy lofty thought,
Thy beauty and thy worth,
But, Eva, I should love thee more,
Didst thou seem more like earth.'

A pang her words poor Eva gave,
And tears were in her eye,
She kissed her mother's anxious brow,
And answered with a sigh;
'Alas! I may not hope on earth
Companionship to find,
Alone must be the pure in heart,
Alone the high in mind!

We toil for earth, its shadowy veil
Envelops soul and thought,
And hides that discipline and life,
Within our being wrought.
We chain the thought, we shroud the soul,
And backward turn our glance,
When onward should the vision be,
And upward its advance.

I may not scorn the spirit's rights,
For I have seen it rise,
All written o'er with thought, thought, thought,
As with a thousand eyes!
The records dark of other years,
All uneffaced remain;
The unchecked wish forgotten long,
With its eternal stain.

Recorded thoughts, recorded deeds,
A character attest,
No garment hides the startling truth,
Nor screens the naked breast.
The thought, fore-shaping evil deeds,
The spirit may not hide,
It stands amid a searching light,
Which sin may not abide.

And never may the spirit turn
From that effulgent ray,
It lives for ever in the glare
Of an eternal day;
Lives in that penetrating light,
A kindred glow to raise,
Or every withering sin to trace
Within its scorching blaze.

Few, few the shapely temple rear,
For God's abiding place—
That mystic temple where no sound
Within the hallowed space
Reveals the skill of builder's hand;
Yet with a silent care
The holy temple riseth up,
And God is dwelling there.*

Then weep not when the infant lies
In its small grave to rest,
With scented flowers springing forth
From out its quiet breast;
A pure, pure soul to earth was given,
Yet may not thus remain;
Rejoice that it is rendered back,
Without a single stain.

Bright cherubs bear the babe away
With many a fond embrace,
And beauty, all unknown to earth,
Upon its features trace.
They teach it knowledge from the fount,
And holy truth and love;
The songs of praise the infant learns,
As angels sing above.'

The widow rose, and on the blaze
The crackling fagots threw—
And then to her maternal breast
Her gentle daughter drew.
'Dear Eva! when old Richard died,
In madness fierce and wild,
Why did he in his phrensy rave
About a murdered child!'

'Dear mother, I have something heard
Of Richard's fearful life,
Hints of a child that disappeared,
And of heart-broken wife—
If thou the story wilt relate,
A light will on me grow
That I shall feel if guilt were his
Or only common woe.'

The Story Of Old Richard.
'HE died in beggary and rags, friendless, and gray, and old;
Yet he was once a thriving man, light-hearted too, I'm told.
Dark deeds were whispered years ago,but nothing came to light;
He seemed the victim of a spell, that nothing would go right.

His young wife died, and her last words were breathed to him alone,
But 'twas a piteous sound to hear her faint, heart-rending moan.
Some thought, in dreams he had divulged a secret hidden crime,
Which she concealed with breaking heart, unto her dying time.'

'Ah, mother, tis a fearful thing,
When human bonds unite
Unwedded hearts, and they are doomed
For ever, day and night,

Companionship to hold,
Yet feeling every hour,
A beauty fading from the earth,
Thought losing half its power.'

'From that day forth he never smiled; morose and silent grown,
He wandered unfrequented ways, a moody man and lone.
The schoolboy shuddered in the wood, when he old Richard passed,
And hurried on, while fearful looks he o'er his shoulder cast.

And naught could lure him from his mood, save his own trusting boy,
Who climbed the silent father's neck, with ministry of joy;
That gentle boy, unlike a child, companions never sought,
Content to share his father's crust, his father's gloomy lot.

With weary foot and tattered robe, beside him, day by day,
He roamed the forest and the hill, and o'er the rough highway;
And he would prattle all the time of things to childhood sweet;
Of singing bird or lovely flower, that sprang beneath their feet.

Sometimes he chid the moody man, with childhood's fond appeal:—
'Dear father, talk to me awhile, how very lone I feel!
My mother used to smile so sad, and talk and kiss my cheek,
And sing to me such pretty songs; so low and gently speak.'

Then Richard took him in his arms with passionate embrace,
And with an aching tenderness he gazed upon his face;—
Tears rushed into his hollow eyes, he murmured soft and wild,
And kissed with more than woman's love the fond but frightened child.

He died, that worn and weary boy; and they that saw him die,
Said on his father's rigid brow was fixed his fading eye.
His little stiffening hand was laid within poor Richard's grasp;—
And when he stooped for one last kiss, he took his dying gasp.

It crazed his brain—poor Richard rose a maniac fierce and wild,
Who mouthed and muttered everywhere, about a murdered child.'

'And well he might,' young Eva said,
'For conscience day by day,
Commenced that retribution here,
That filled him with dismay.
A girl beguiled in her young years
From all of youthful joy,
And unto solitary life,
Is doomed her stricken boy.'

Nor was this all the widow said, for in his early youth,
There was a tale of love and wrong, of vows and perjured truth.
The storm I do remember well that brought the bones to light;
I was a maiden then myself, with curly hair and bright.

Unwedded , but a mother grown, poor Lucy pressed her child,
With blushing cheek and drooping lid, and lip that never smiled.
Their wants were few; but Richard's hand must buy them daily bread,
And fain would Lucy have been laid in silence with the dead.

For want, and scorn, and blighted fame, had done the work of years,
And oft she knelt in lowly prayer, in penitence and tears;
That undesired child of shame, brought comfort to her heart,
A childlike smile to her pale lip, by its sweet baby art.

And yet, as years their passage told, faint shadows slowly crept
Upon the blighted maiden's mind, and oft she knelt and wept
Unknowing why, her wavy form so thin and reed-like grew,
And so appealing her blue eyes, they tears from others drew.

Years passed away, and Lucy's child, a noble stripling grown,
A daring boy with chestnut hair, and eyes of changeful brown,
Had won the love of every heart, so gentle was his air,
All felt, whate'er might be his birth, a manly soul was there.

The boy was missing, none could tell where last he had been seen;
They searched the river many a day, and every forest screen;
But never more his filial voice poor Lucy's heart might cheer;
Lorn in her grief and dull with wo, she never shed a tear.

And every day, whate'er the sky, with head upon her knees,
And hair neglected, streaming out upon the passing breeze,
She sat beneath a slender tree that near the river grew,
And on the stream its pendent limbs their penciled shadows threw.

The matron left her busy toil, and called her child from play,
And gifts for the lone mourner there she sent with him away.
The boy with nuts and fruit returned, found in the forest deep,
A portion of his little store would for poor Lucy keep.

That tree, with wonder all beheld, its growth was strange and rare;
The wintry winds, that wailing passed, scarce left its branches bare,
And round the roots a verdant spot knew neither change nor blight,
And so poor Lucy's resting-place was always green and bright.

Some said its bole more rapid grew from Lucy's bleeding heart,
For, sighs from out the heart, 'tis said, a drop of blood will start.*
It was an instinct deep and high which led the Mother there,
And that tall tree aspiring grew, by more than dew or air.

The winds were hushed, the little bird scarce gave a nestling sound,
The warm air slept along the hill, the blossoms drooped around;
The shrill-toned insect hardly stirred the dry and crisped leaf;
The laborer laid his sickle down beside the bending sheaf.

A dark portentous cloud is seen to mount the eastern sky,
The deep-toned thunder rolling on, proclaims the tempest nigh!
And now it breaks with deafening crash, and lightning's livid glow;
The torrents leap from mountain crags and wildly dash below.

Behold the tree! its strength is bowed, a shattered mass it lies;
What brings old Richard to the spot, with wild and blood-shot eyes?
Poor Lucy's form is lifeless there, and yet he turns away,
To where a heap of mouldering bones beneath the strong roots lay.

Why takes he up with shrivelled hands, the riven root and stone,
And spreads them with a trembling haste upon each damp, gray bone.
It may not be, the whirlwind's rage again hath left them bare,
All bare, and mingled with the locks of Lucy's tangled hair.'

Of wife, and child, and friends bereft,
And all that inward light,
Which calmly guides the white-haired man,
Who listens to the right;
Old Richard laid him down to die,
Himself his only foe,
His baffled nature groaning out
Its weight of inward wo.

Oh there are wrongs that selfish hearts
Inflict on every side,
And swell the depths of human ill
Unto a surging tide,
And there are things that blight the soul,
As with a mildew blight,
And in the temple of the Lord
Put out the blessed light.

There are, who mindless God hath given,
To mark each human soul,
Distinctive laws, distinctive rights,
Its being to control,
Would, in their blind and selfish zeal,
Remove God's wondrous gift,
And, that their image might have place,
God's altar veil would lift:

They call it Love, forgetful they,
That 'twas this hallowed screen,
Concealing, half revealing too,
The seen and the unseen,
That first suggested deathless love,
The infinite in grace,
This inward and seraphic charm,
That floated o'er the face.