Virginia Free Press

THE TREE OF LIFE.

BY WILLIAM R. MORRIS.

It hung not o'er the secret floods,
That freed the ancient wave of Nile,
It waved not in the mystic woods
Where Druids heap'd their blood-stained pile;
It towered not in the dusky shades
Of old Dodona's classic grove.
It sprang not 'mid Castalia's glades,
Where Nymph, and Faun, and Satyr rove

That precious tree! nay, whence it spread
Stems from an infant's cradled bed.
It branches, it uprears o'er all the earth
In leaves their trembling shadows cast,
And thoughts of love, and peace, and mirth,
Where'er its fragrance scents the blast.

The mother left his temple pray,
While o'er her head its branches played,
The war-dogs hushed their baying bay,
And crouched, and slept beneath its shade.
That bounteous tree! nay, whence it spread?
'Twas from an infant's cradled bed.

Here, from the noontide's sultry beam,
The weary pilgrim met repose,
And finds, in bowers that round him stream,
A balm for all his mournful woes.
The widow near her husband's bier
And, musing, sees her griefs are o'er
The orphan wipes the falling tear,
And sees his father's face once more.
That healing tree! say, whence it spread?
'Twas from an infant's cradled bed.

Here loves the brave his banner down,
And halts, and dusts his weary sword
And asks of Thee the laurel's crown,
And straggling trains are poured,
Here may the starving fugitive stay,
For here are hope, and fear, and gloom,
And rich and stolen while roses assume
That bounteous tree: say, whence it spread?
'Twas from an infant's cradled bed.

That wondrous tree: its shade I'll seek!
The leaf brings coolness on my brow:
My pulse is faint, my limbs are weak,
I long to gain its shelter now;
O'er many a fiery mile I've pass'd,
For well with sin my nerves were strung;
But now, could my strength but last,
Till I can stand that band among,
Who bless the tree that sprung and spread
From a poor infant's cradled bed!