BRAVELY thy old arms fling

Their countless pennons to the fields of air

And like a sylvan king,

Their panoply of green still proudly wear.

TO AN ELM.

As some rude tower of old,

Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form,
With limbs of giant mould,

To battle sternly with the winter storm.

In Nature's mighty fane,

Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky;
How long the pilgrim train,

That with a benison have passed thee by!

Lone patriarch of the wood!
Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise,
Of fresh and dauntless mood,
Spreading thy branches to the open skies.

The locust knows thee well,

And when the summer days his notes prolong,

Hid in some leafy cell,

Pours from thy world of leaves his drowsy song.

Oft on a morn in spring,

The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray,

And there securely swing,

To whet his beak, and breathe his blithesome lay.

How bursts thy monarch wail,

When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life,

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And bared to meet the gale,

Wave thy old branches eager for the strife!

The sunset often weaves

Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare,
While the fresh-murmuring leaves
Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air.

Sacred thy roof of green

To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free;
Gay youth and age serene,
Turn with familiar gladness unto thee.

Oh, hither should we roam,

To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade;
Beneath thy emerald dome

Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade.

With blessings, at thy feet

Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest;

Thy verdant, calm retreat,

Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast.

When at the twilight hour,

Plays through thy tressil crown, the sun's last gleam,
Under thy ancient bower

The school-boy comes to sport, the bard to dream

THE BANNER OF MURAT.

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And when the moonbeams fall

Through thy broad canopy upon the grass,
Making a fairy hall,

As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass;

Then lovers haste to thee,

With hearts that tremble like that shifting light:
To them, oh, brave old tree,

Thou art joy's shrine-a temple of delight!

THE BANNER OF MURAT.

BY PROSPER M. WETMORE.

"Thou, of the snow-white plume!"-Byron.

FOREMOST among the first,

And bravest of the brave!

Where'er the battle's fury burst,

Or rolled its purple wave—

There flashed his glance like a meteor,

As he charged the foe afar;

And the snowy plume that his helmet bore,
Was the banner of Murat!

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THE BANNER OF MURAT.

Mingler on many a field,

Where rung wild victory's peal!
That fearless spirit was like a shield—
A panoply of steel:

For very joy in a glorious name,

He rushed where danger stood;

And that banner-plume, like a winged flame,
Streamed o'er the field of blood!

His followers loved to gaze

On his form with a fierce delight,

As it towered above the battle's blaze

A pillar 'midst the fight:

And eyes looked up, ere they closed in death,
Through the thick and sulphury air-

And lips shrieked out with their parting breath,
'The lily plume is there!'

A cloud is o'er him now

For the peril hour hath come

And he stands with his high unshaded brow,

On the fearful spot of doom:

Away! no screen for a soldier's eye

No fear his soul appals;

A rattling peal-and a shuddering cry-
And bannerless he falls!