The Oak 



Donald Tin i i i 



aw of the past, and monarch of the present, 

 How thy strong rugged ist t he foibles of o'crpowering 



man. 

 Though once thy time was measured all in moons, 



1 skinned sons of Nature reckoned lift-, 

 Long since that all has changed; and in h\> stead, 

 The artificial white man drives the world; 

 And in the driving loses what is beautiful. 

 He cursed the nobler owners of the land, 

 And pushed them forth as sheep 'mongst hungry wolves, 

 As herds of cattle, bison, wretches, dogs, 

 He branded these first men who found life sweet. 



And worse, he called them liars, sneaks, and thieves, 



Yet had no worthier sons to fill their place. 



All this, O Worthy Sire, thou hast seen, and more; 



The love scene of the Indian maid has passed. 



Beneath thy sturdy boughs, how oft a song 



Of simple truth and melody was outward sent, 



Through shade, across the silver sheen and on, until 



It lost its echo in some distant woods. 



How many a feathered songster of God's choir 



Has loved and in your boughs to you, poured forth his song. 



The greatest secrets hast thou overheard. 



And yet, no harm when only thou dost hear, 



For only after centuries of time, 



When all the idle whisperers have gone, 



Dos : thou consent to tell to anyone 



Th Q history of love in times before. 



Full many a Spring has come and Summer gone, 



And flocks of birds have often sung the songs, 



And other woodlanl folk have trusted thee 



For home, and shelter; where to rear their brood. 



The Indian while he prayed unto the sun, his God, 



Has lived, told secrets, and in thy shadow died. 



Are my poor ears too harsh to catch thy words, 



Thy note of truly 'most prophetic strain, 



Must I then bear the evils of my race, 



And never hear a word thou hast to say? 



Or wilt thou drop just here and there a word 



Of how the Springs have come and gone before. 



How this one differs, or perhaps is like 



Those former ones; and then just tell me this — ■ 



Why in this busy world we have no time? 



For thou hast lived for many moons serene and strong and loved, 



And still remain, a noble gift to all posterity. 



287 



