AKf!OR DA Y MANUAL. 



145 



THE LIVE OAK. 



W"1TH his gnarled old arms, and his iron form 

 Majestic in the wood, 

 From age to age, in the sun and storm, 



The live-oak long hath stood, 

 With his stately air, that grave old tree, 



He stands like a hooded monk, 

 With the gray moss waving solemnly 

 From his shaggy limbs and trunk. 



And the generations come and go, 



And still he stands upright, 

 And he sternly looks on the wood below, 



As conscious of his might. 

 But a mourner sad is the hoary tree, 



A mourner sad and lone, 

 And is clothed in funeral drapery 



For the long-since dead and gone. 



For the Indian hunter, beneath his shade, 



Has rested from the chase ; 

 And he here has wooed his dusky maid 



The dark-eyed of her race ; 

 And the tree is red with the gushing gore, 



As the wild deer panting dies ; 

 But the maid is gone and the chase is o'er, 



And the old oak hoarsely sighs. 



In former days, when the battle's din 



Was loud amid the land, 

 In his friendly shadow, few and thin, 



Have gathered Freedom's band ; 

 And the stern old oak, how proud was he 



To shelter hearts so brave ! 

 But they all are gone, the bold and free, 



And he moans above their grave. 



And the aged oak, with his locks of gray, 



Is ripe for the sacrifice ; 

 For the worm and decay, no lingering prey, 



Shall he tower towards the skies ! 

 He falls, he falls, to become our guard, 



The bulwark of the free ; 

 And his bosom of steel is proudly bared 



To brave the raging sea ! 

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