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There is a
Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this day
stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as
it stood of yore:
Not loathe to furnish weapons for
the Bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at
earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference
and gloom profound
This solitary Tree! -a living
thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form
and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But
worthier still of note
Are those fraternal Four of
Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! -and each particular trunk a growth
Of
intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and
inveteratley convolved, -
Nor uninformed with
Fantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane; -a
pillared shade,
Upon whose grassless floor of
red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage
tinged
Perennially -beneath whose sable roof
Of
boughs, as if for festal purpose decked
With
unrejoicing berries -ghostly Shapes
May meet at
noontide: Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and
Foresight, Death the Skeleton
And Time the Shadow;
there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered
o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen
to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's
inmost caves.
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