The Fallen Lime-Tree

O joy of the peasant! O stately lime!
Thou art fall’n in thy golden honey-time!
Thou whose wavy shadows,
Long and long ago,
Screen’d our gray forefathers
From the noontide’s glow;
Thou, beneath whose branches,
Touch’d with moonlight gleams,
Lay our early poets
Wrapt in fairy dreams.
O tree of our fathers! O hallow’d tree!
A glory is gone from our home with thee.

Where shall now the weary
Rest through summer eves?
Or the bee find honey,
As on thy sweet leaves?
Where shall now the ringdove
Build again her nest?
She so long the inmate
Of thy fragrant breast!
But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee!

These may yet find coverts
Leafy and profound,
Full of dewy dimness,
Odour, and soft sound:
But the gentle memories
Clinging all to thee,
When shall they be gather’d
Round another tree?
O pride of our fathers! O hallow’d tree!
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!