The Haunted Tree

Those silver clouds collected round the sun His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less To overshade than multiply his beams By soft reflection, grateful to the sky, To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy More ample than the time-dismantled Oak Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use Was fashioned; whether, by the hand of Art, That eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs In languor; or, by Nature, for repose Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied with the chase. O Lady! fairer in thy Poet's sight Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves, Approach; and, thus invited, crown with rest The noon-tide hour: though truly some there are Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid This venerable Tree; for, when the wind Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound (Above the general roar of woods and crags) Distinctly heard from far, a doleful note! As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed) The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved, By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost Haunts the old trunk; lamenting deeds of which The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind Sweeps now along this elevated ridge; Not even a zephyr stirs; the obnoxious Tree Is mute; and, in his silence, would look down, O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills, On thy reclining form with more delight Than his coevals in the sheltered vale Seem to participate, the while they view Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads Vividly pictured in some glassy pool, That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream!