The Box-Tree's Love

Long time beside the squatter's gate     A great grey Box-Tree, early, late,     Or shine or rain, in silence there     Had stood and watched the seasons fare:     Had seen the wind upon the plain     Caress the amber ears of grain;     The river burst its banks and come     Far past its belt of mighty gum:     Had seen the scarlet months of drought     Scourging the land with fiery knout;     And seasons ill and seasons good     Had alternated as they would.     The years were born, had grown and gone,     While suns had set and suns had shone;     Fierce flames had swept; chill waters drenched;     That sturdy yeoman never blenched.     The Tree had watched the station grow,     The buildings rising row on row;     And from that point of vantage green,     Peering athwart its leafy screen,     The wondering soldier-birds had seen     The lumbering bullock-dray draw near,     Led by that swarthy pioneer     Who, gazing at the pleasant shade,     Was tempted, dropped his whip and stayed;     Brought there his wanderings to a close;     Unloosed the polished yokes and bows.     The bullocks, thankful for the boon,     Rang on their bells a merry tune:     The hobbles clinked; the horses grazed;     The snowy calico was raised;     The fire was lit; the fragrant tea     Drunk to a sunset melody     Tuned by the day before it died     To waken on Earth's other side.     There 'twas, beneath that Box-Tree's shade,     Fortune's foundation-stone was laid;     Cemented fast with toil and thrift,     Stone upon stone was laid to lift     A mighty arch, commemorate     Of one who reached the goal too late.     That white-haired pioneer with pride     Fitted the keystone; then he died:     His toil, his thrift, all to what boot?     He gave his life for Dead Sea fruit:     What did it boot his wide domain     Of feathered pine and sweeping plain,     Sand-ridge and turf? for he lay dead,     Another reigning in his stead.     His sons forgot him; but that Tree     Mourned for him long and silently,     And o'er the old man's lonely bier     Would, if he could, have dropped a tear.     One other being only shared     His grief: one other only cared:     And she was but a six years' maid,     His grandchild, who had watched him fade     In childish ignorance; and wept     Because the poor old grand-dad slept     So long a sleep, and never came     To smile upon her at her game,     Or tell her stories of the fays     And giants of the olden days.     She cared; and, as the seasons sped,     Linked by the memory of the dead,     They two, the Box-Tree and the Child,     Grew old in friendship; and she smiled,     Clapping her chubby hands with glee,     When for her pleasure that old Tree     Would shake his limbs, and let the light     Glance in a million sparkles bright     From off his polished olive cloak.     Then would the infant gently stroke     His massive bole, and laughing try     To count the patches of blue sky     Betwixt his leaves, or in the shades     That trembled on the grassy blades     Trace curious faces, till her head     Of gold grew heavy; then he'd spread     His leaves to shield her, while he droned     A lullaby, so softly toned     It seemed but as the gentle sigh     Of Summer as she floated by;     While bird and beast grew humble-voiced,     Seeing those golden ringlets moist     With dew of sleep. With one small hand     Grasping a grass-stem for a wand,     Titania slept. Nature nor spoke,     Nor dared to breathe, until she woke.     The years passed onward; and perchance     The Tree had shot his tufted lance     Up to the sky a few slow feet;     But one great limb grew down to greet     His mistress, who had ne'er declined     In love for him, though far behind     Her child-life lay, and now she stood     Waiting to welcome womanhood.     She loved him always as of old;     Yet would his great roots grasp the mould,     And knotted branches grind and groan     To see her seek him not alone;     For lovers came, and 'neath those boughs     With suave conversing sought to rouse     The slumbering passion in a breast     Whose coldness gave an added zest     To the pursuit; but all in vain:     They spoke the once, nor came again,     Save one alone, who pressed his suit     (Man-like, he loved forbidden fruit)     And strove to change her Nay to Yea,     Until it fell upon a day     Once more he put his fate to proof     Standing beneath that olive roof;     And though her answer still was No'     He, half-incensed, refused to go,     Asking her, Had she heart for none     Because there was some other one     Who claimed it all? Whereon the maid     Slipped off her ring and laughing said:     Look you, my friend! here now I prove     The truth of it, and pledge my love!'     And, poised on tiptoe, touched a limb     That bent to gratify her whim.     She slipped the golden circle on     A tiny branchlet, whence it shone     Mocking the suitor with its gleam,     A quaint dispersal of his dream.     She left the trinket there; but when     She came to take it back again     She found it not; nor though she knelt     Upon the scented grass and felt     Among its roots, or parted sheaves     And peered among the shining leaves,     Could it be found. The Box-Tree held     Her troth for aye: his great form swelled     Until the bitter sap swept through     His veins and gave him youth anew.     With busy fingers, lank and thin,     The fatal Sisters sit and spin     Life's web, in gloomy musings wrapt,     Caring not, when a thread is snapt,     What harm its severance may do,     Whether it strangleth one or two.     Alas! there came an awful space     Of time wherein that sweet young face     Grew pale, its sharpened outline pressed     Deep in the pillow; for a guest,     Unsought, unbidden, forced his way     Into the chamber where she lay.     'Twas Death! . . . Outside the Box-Tree kept     Sad vigil, and at times he swept     His branches softly, as a thrill     Shot through his framework, boding ill     To her he loved; and so he bade     A bird fly ask her why she stayed.     The messenger, with glistening eye,     Returned, and said, The maid doth lie     Asleep. I tapped upon the pane:     She stirred not, so I tapped again.     She rests so silent on the bed,     Friend, that I fear the maid is dead;     For they have cut great sprays of bloom     And laid them all about the room.     The scent of roses fills the air:     They nestle in her breast and hair,     Like snowy mourners, scented, sweet,     Around her pillow and her feet.'     Ah, me!' the Box-Tree, sighing, said;     My love is dead! my love is dead!'     And shook his branches till each leaf     Chorused his agony of grief.     They bore the maiden forth, and laid     Her down to rest where she had played     Amid her piles of forest-spoil     In childhood: now the sun-caked soil     Closed over her. Ah!' sighed the Tree,     Mark how my love doth come to me!'     He pushed brown rootlets down, and slid     Between the casket and its lid;     And bade them very gently creep     And wake the maiden from her sleep.     The tiny filaments slipped down     And plucked the lace upon her gown.     She stirred not when they ventured near     And softly whispered in her ear.     The silken fibres gently press     Upon her lips a chill caress:     They wreathe her waist: they brush her hair:     Under her pallid eyelids stare:     Yet all in vain; she will not wake,     Not even for her lover's sake.     The Box-Tree groaned aloud and cried:     Ah, me! grim Death hath stole my bride.     Where is she hidden? Where hath flown     Her soul? I cannot bide alone;     But fain would follow.'     Then he called     And whispered to an ant that crawled     Upon a bough; and bade it seek     The white-ant colony and speak     A message where, beneath a dome     Of earth, the white queen hath her home.     She sent a mighty army forth     That fall upon the tree in wrath,     And, entering by a tiny hole,     Fill all the hollow of his bole;     Through all its pipes and crannies pour;     Sharp at his aching heart-strings tore;     Along his branches built a maze     Of sinuous, earthen-covered ways.     His smooth leaves shrunk, his sap ran dry:     The sunbeams laughing from the sky     Helped the ant workers at their toil,     Sucking all moisture from the soil.     Then on a night the wind swept down     And rustled 'mid the foliage brown.     The mighty framework creaked and groaned     In giant agony, and moaned,     Its wind-swept branches growing numb,     I come, my love! my love, I come!'     A gust more furious than the rest     Struck the great Box-Tree's shivering crest:     The great bole snapped across its girth;     The forest monarch fell to earth     With such a mighty rush of sound     The settlers heard it miles around,     While upward through the windy night     That faithful lover's soul took flight.     The squatter smiled to see it fall:     He sent his men with wedge and maul,     Who split the tree; but found it good     For nothing more than kindling-wood.     They marvelled much to find a ring,     Asking themselves what chanced to bring     The golden circlet which they found     Clasping a branchlet firmly round.     Foolish and blind! they could not see     The faithfulness of that dead Tree.