The Tulip Tree

From Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 1, July 1849.

Editor: George R. Graham, J. R. Chandler, and J. B. Taylor.

Bounds my blood with long-forgotten fleetness
To the chime of boyhood�s blithest tune,
While I drink a life of brimming sweetness
From the glory of the breezy June.
Far above, the fields of ether brighten;
Forest leaves are twinkling in their glee;
And the daisy�s snows around me whiten,
Drifted down the sloping lea!

On the hills he standeth like a tower,
Shining in the morn�the Tulip-Tree!
On his rounded turrets beats the shower,
While his emerald flags are flapping free:
But when Summer in the fields is standing,
And his blood is stirred with light, like wine,
O�er his branches, all at once expanding,
How the starry blossoms shine!

Through the glossy leaves they burn, unfolded,
Like the breast of some sweet oriole�
Filled with fragrance, as a joy new moulded
Into being by a poet�s soul!
Violet hills, against the sunrise lying,
See them kindle when the stars grow dim,
And the breeze that drinks their odorous sighing
Woos the lark�s rejoicing hymn.

Then all day, in every opening chalice
Drains their honey-drops the reveling bee,
Till the dove-winged Sleep makes thee her palace,
Filled with song-like murmurs, Tulip-Tree!
In thine arms repose the dreams enchanted
Which in childhood�s heart were nestled long,
And, beneath thee, still my brain is haunted
With their tones of vanished song.

Oh, while Earth�s full heart is throbbing over
With its wealth of light and life and joy,
Who can dream the seasons that shall cover
With their frost the visions of the boy?
Who can paint the years that downward darken,
While the splendid morning bids aspire,
Or the turf upon his coffin hearken,
When his pulses leap with fire!

Wind of June, that sweep�st the rolling meadow,
Thou shalt wail in branches rough and bare,
While the tree, o�erhung with storm and shadow,
Writhes and creaks amid the gusty air.
All his leaves, like shields of fairies scattered,
Then shall drop before the Northwind�s spears,
And his limbs, by hail and tempest battered,
Feel the weight of wintry years.

Yet, why cloud the rapture and the glory
Of the Beautiful, that still remains?
Life, alas! will soon reverse the story,
And its sunshine gild forsaken plains.
Let thy blossoms in the morning brighten,
Happy heart, as doth the Tulip-Tree,
While the daisy�s snows around us whiten,
Drifted down the sloping lea!