While The Billy BoilsSearchLong time beside the squatter's gateA great grey Box-Tree, early, late,Or shine or rain, in silence thereHad stood and watched the seasons fare:Had seen the wind upon the plainCaress the amber ears of grain;The river burst its banks and comeFar past its belt of mighty gum:Had seen the scarlet months of droughtScourging the land with fiery knout;And seasons ill and seasons goodHad 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 seenThe lumbering bullock-dray draw near,Led by that swarthy pioneerWho, 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 teaDrunk to a sunset melodyTuned by the day before it diedTo 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 liftA mighty arch, commemorateOf one who reached the goal too late.That white-haired pioneer with prideFitted 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 domainOf feathered pine and sweeping plain,Sand-ridge and turf? for he lay dead—Another reigning in his stead.
His sons forgot him; but thatTree Mourned for him long and silently,And o'er the old man's lonely bierWould, if he could, have dropped a tear.One other being only sharedHis grief: one other only cared:And she was but a six years' maid—His grandchild, who had watched him fadeIn childish ignorance; and weptBecause the poor old grand-dad sleptSo long a sleep, and never cameTo smile upon her at her game,Or tell her stories of the faysAnd 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 TreeWould shake his limbs, and let the lightGlance in a million sparkles brightFrom off his polished olive cloak.Then would the infant gently strokeHis massive bole, and laughing tryTo count the patches of blue skyBetwixt his leaves, or in the shadesThat trembled on the grassy bladesTrace curious faces, till her headOf gold grew heavy; then he'd spreadHis leaves to shield her, while he dronedA lullaby, so softly tonedIt seemed but as the gentle sighOf Summer as she floated by;While bird and beast grew humble-voiced,Seeing those golden ringlets moistWith dew of sleep. With one small handGrasping a grass-stem for a wand,Titania slept. Nature nor spoke,Nor dared to breathe, until she woke.
The years passed onward; and perchanceThe Tree had shot his tufted lanceUp to the sky a few slow feet;But one great limb grew down to greetHis mistress, who had ne'er declinedIn love for him, though far behindHer child-life lay, and now she stoodWaiting to welcome womanhood.She loved him always as of old;Yet would his great roots grasp the mould,And knotted branches grind and groanTo see her seek him not alone;For lovers came, and 'neath those boughsWith suave conversing sought to rouseThe slumbering passion in a breastWhose coldness gave an added zestTo 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 dayOnce more he put his fate to proofStanding beneath that olive roof;And though her answer still was 'No'He, half-incensed, refused to go,Asking her, Had she heart for noneBecause there was some other oneWho claimed it all?
Whereon the maidSlipped off her ring and laughing said:'Look you, my friend! here now I proveThe truth of it, and pledge my love!'—And, poised on tiptoe, touched a limbThat bent to gratify her whim.She slipped the golden circle onA tiny branchlet, whence it shoneMocking the suitor with its gleam—A quaint dispersal of his dream.She left the trinket there; but whenShe came to take it back againShe found it not; nor—though she kneltUpon the scented grass and feltAmong its roots, or parted sheavesAnd peered among the shining leaves—Could it be found. The Box-Tree heldHer troth for aye: his great form swelledUntil the bitter sap swept throughHis veins and gave him youth anew.
With busy fingers, lank and thin,The fatal Sisters sit and spinLife'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 spaceOf time wherein that sweet young faceGrew pale, its sharpened outline pressedDeep in the pillow; for a guest,Unsought, unbidden, forced his wayInto the chamber where she lay.'Twas Death!...Outside the Box-Tree keptSad vigil, and at times he sweptHis branches softly, as a thrillShot through his framework, boding illTo her he loved; and so he badeA bird fly ask her why she stayed.The messenger, with glistening eye,Returned, and said, 'The maid doth lieAsleep. 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 bloomAnd 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 leafChorused his agony of grief.
They bore the maiden forth, and laidHer down to rest where she had playedAmid her piles of forest-spoilIn childhood: now the sun-caked soilClosed over her. 'Ah!' sighed the Tree,'Mark how my love doth come to me!'He pushed brown rootlets down, and slidBetween the casket and its lid;And bade them very gently creepAnd wake the maiden from her sleep.The tiny filaments slipped downAnd plucked the lace upon her gown.She stirred not when they ventured nearAnd softly whispered in her ear.
The silken fibres gently pressUpon 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 flownHer soul? I cannot bide alone;But fain would follow.'
Then he calledAnd whispered to an ant that crawledUpon a bough; and bade it seekThe white-ant colony and speakA message where, beneath a domeOf earth, the white queen hath her home.She sent a mighty army forthThat 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 mazeOf sinuous, earthen-covered ways.His smooth leaves shrunk, his sap ran dry:The sunbeams laughing from the skyHelped the ant workers at their toil,Sucking all moisture from the soil.
Then on a night the wind swept downAnd rustled 'mid the foliage brown.The mighty framework creaked and groanedIn giant agony, and moaned—Its wind-swept branches growing numb—'I come, my love! my love, I come!'A gust more furious than the restStruck the great Box-Tree's shivering crest:The great bole snapped across its girth;The forest monarch fell to earthWith such a mighty rush of soundThe settlers heard it miles around,While upward through the windy nightThat 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 goodFor nothing more than kindling-wood.They marvelled much to find a ring—Asking themselves what chanced to bringThe golden circlet which they foundClasping a branchlet firmly round.Foolish and blind! they could not seeThe faithfulness of that dead Tree.