CHAP. CV. -. CORYLA‘CEX.: QUE’RCUS. 1785 
So many British poets have celebrated the oak; and its beauty, dignity, and 
strength have afforded so many fine similes; that we are compelled to make a 
selection, and shall first give extracts from three of our oldest and most 
popular poets ; viz. Chaucer, Spencer, and Shakspeare. 
** And to a pleasant grove I ’gan to passe 
Long er the bright sunne ok Fa iat ; 
In which were okes great, straight as a line, 
Under the which the grasse, so fresh of hew, 
Was newly sprong, and an eight foot, or nine, 
Every tree well fro his fellow grew, 
With branches brode, laden with leves new, 
That sprongen out agen the sunne shine ; 
Some very red, and some a glad bright green.” CHAUCER, 
“* There grew an aged tree on the green ; 
A goodly oak some time had it been, 
. With arms full strong, and largely display’d, 
But of their leaves sey were disarray’d: ; 
His body big, and mightily pright, 
Thoroughly rooted, and of wond’rous height : 
Whilome had been the king of the field, 
And mochel masts to the husband did yield, 
And with his nuts larded many swine; 
But now the grey moss marr’d his rine; 
His bared boughs were beaten with storms, 
His top was bald, and wasted with worms. 
For it had been an ancient tree, 
Sacred with many a mystery.” SPENSER’s Shepherd’s Calendar. 
“ Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ; 
Whose boughs were moss’d with age, 
And high top bald with dry antiquity.” SHAKSPEARE. 
To these we add extracts, relating to trees we have already described, from 
Cowper’s Yardley Chase, Mundy’s Needwood Forest, and Carrington’s Dart- 
moor. For the Yardley Oak, see p. 1764. 
* Thou wert a bauble once, a cup and ball, 
Which babes might play with ; and the thievish jay 
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin’d 
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs, 
And all thy embryo vastness, at a gulp. 
Time made thee what thou wert — king of the woods! 
And time hath made thee what thou art —a cave 
For owls to roost in! Once thy spreading boughs 
O’erhung the champaign, and the numerous flock 
That grazed it stood beneath that ample cope ’ 
Uncrowded, yet safe-shelter’d from the storm. 
No flock frequents thee now: thou hast outlived 
Thy popularity, and art become 
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth! 
Embowell’d now, and of thy ancient self 
Possessing nought but the scooped rind, that seems 
A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, 
Which it would give in rivulets to thy roots : 
Thou temptest none, but rather much forbid’st 
The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. 
Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock : 
A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs, 
Which, crook’d into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. 
Thine arms have left thee — winds have rent them off 
Long since; and rovers of the forest wild 
With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some have left 
A splinter’d stump, bleach’d to a snowy white; 
And some, memorial none where once they grew. 
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth 
Proof not contemptible of what she can, 
Even where death predominates. The spring 
Finds thee not less alive to her sweet form, 
Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood, 
So much thy juniors, who their irth received 
Half a millennium since the date of thine,” Cowper's Yardley Chase. 
