BENEATH a Tree's green leafy shade,
In Life's profusion, freshly spread,
On herbage rich, and blossoms fair,
Fraught with the vigor of the year,
Poor Youth was stretch'd, his wand'rings done
His silent Lyre beside him lying;
His smile, and eye's gay frolic, gone,
For Youth beneath the Tree lay dying.
Stopp'd sudden in its midway flow,
Hard struggled Life against the blow;

As streams engulph'd in yawning caves,
Will foam and strive before they cease:
Not like the lapse of quiet waves,
Uniting with the Seas in peace.
His lip, erewhile so fresh and red,
Was ghastly white as is the dead;
His fingers grasp'd the flow's around,
But senseless to their bloom and breath;
No thoughts of Joy were with them bound,--
'Twas but the fever-grasp of Death.
O'er him the pallid figure hung,
Whom Youth in better days had sung;
The listener fond, and counsel sage,
Upright, yet merciful old Age.
He who, alas! 'mid life and glee,
Had seen full oft his Memory
In Youth's wild heart wax dim;
But who through every changing hour,
Of Sunshine's gleam or Tempest's pow'r,
Had ne'er forgotten him.

Oh! had thine eye beheld that pair
So lonely and so mournful there!
Grey Age, with eyes that told of woe,
And fill'd, but did not overflow;
Poor Youth, at times toward him turning
The glance, where Life's last flame was burning;
Hadst thou beheld them, 'twould have made
All Nature's pomp look sad awhile,
When thinking on that dying bed,
Where bloom and sunshine lost their smile.

Twas pain to Youth, to think the Sun,
He lov'd so well to look upon,
Would walk whole years the noble sky,--
And waken not his marble eye;
To think so many a moon'lit night,
And tempest with its lov'd storm-light,
And dewy morn with opal clouds,
And rose-tints deepening from their shrouds,
Should pass above him, and yet move
In him, no glow, nor fire, nor love.

His heart, too, ach'd, to think how many
Would soon forget he e'er had been;
And next it ask'd itself if any
Would miss him long from Life's quick scene.
Ah! one, perchance, would cherish yet
Thoughts of his life and early lot;
He rais'd the eyes where Death was set,
And murmur'd--'Age, forget me not!'

And Age, would he forget him?--no--
Youth felt it in the hands that press'd,
Before the word was spoken thro',
His form against that heaving breast.
The word was spoke--the look was sped--
The pang endured--and Youth lay dead.

Then, when the hand no longer stirr'd,
The sinking breath no more was heard,
When dim the soul within those eyes,
And life had summon'd back its dyes,--

Then, on the cheek of Age there pass'd
The tear-drops flowing o'er at last;
And with no eye save that which slept
To look upon his face, he wept.

On many an eve, wen twilight shed
Its hues o'er Youth's untimely bed,
Not distant far, grey Age would sit
Before the name he there had writ;
And with past time within the tomb,
Mingle the thoughts of days to come.
Not his such grief as Youth's had been;
His heart was mild, his brow serene;
Still kept is soul its quiet mood;
Each living tie was car'd-for still;
Nay, he could even deem it good
That cherish'd head was hid from ill.
And though the only ray was gone,
Which on his wintry evening shone,
He mark'd the change with patient eye,
And wish'd, but did not ask to die;

Though 'twas the tie for which he liv'd,
He did not grieve as Youth had griev'd.

For Age was drawing near the shore,
Where friends who meet shall part no more;
Almost upon his quiet ear,
That country's voice at times would rise;
Almost within his atmosphere,
Was bent a day-beam of its skies.
And firmly did he tread his way,
Tho' clouded now, and cold and drear;
Advancing grateful to the day,
Which dawn'd from out a happier sphere;
And grateful too for all the flow'rs,
That once his happier path had dress'd;
Rememb'ring, mid his broken bow'rs,
That e'en on earth he had been bless'd.