An universal silence reigns
  In rugged bark or peel,
Except that very trunk which rings
  Beneath the biting steel—­
Meanwhile the Woodman plies his axe
  With unrelenting zeal!

No rustic song is on his tongue,
  No whistle on his lips;
But with a quiet thoughtfulness
  His trusty tool he grips,
And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out
  The bright and flying chips.

Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint
  He spreads the fatal gash;
Till, lo! the remnant fibres rend,
  With harsh and sudden crash,
And on the dull resounding turf
  The jarring branches lash!

Oh! now the Forest Trees may sigh,
  The Ash, the Poplar tall,
The Elm, the Beech, the drooping Birch,
  The Aspens—­one and all,
    With solemn groan
    And hollow moan
  Lament a comrade’s fall!

A goodly Elm, of noble girth,
  That, thrice the human span—­
While on their variegated course
  The constant Seasons ran—­
Through gale, and hail, and fiery bolt,
  Had stood erect as Man.

But now, like mortal Man himself,
  Struck down by hand of God,
Or heathen Idol tumbled prone
  Beneath th’ Eternal’s nod,
In all its giant bulk and length
  It lies along the sod!

Ay, now the Forest Trees may grieve
  And make a common moan
Around that patriarchal trunk
  So newly overthrown;
And with a murmur recognize
  A doom to be their own!

The Echo sleeps:  the idle axe,
  A disregarded tool,
Lies crushing with its passive weight
  The toad’s reputed stool—­
The Woodman wipes his dewy brow
  Within the shadows cool.

No Zephyr stirs:  the ear may catch
  The smallest insect-hum;
But on the disappointed sense
  No mystic whispers come;
No tone of sylvan sympathy,
  The Forest Trees are dumb.

No leafy noise, nor inward voice,
  No sad and solemn sound,
That sometimes murmurs overhead,
  And sometimes underground;
As in that shady Avenue,
  Where lofty Elms abound!

PART III.

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.