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Old trees have fallen down, 



From the sites where they stood of yore, 

 And now in tower or town 



Their names are heard no more. 

 When they stood in their days of pride, 



The Saxon wore his crown, 

 And oft through the forest wide 



The Norman wound his horn ; 

 But thou in thy beauty's sheen, 



Young tree, art rising high, 

 Thy waving boughs are seen, 



Against the clear blue sky. 



No dibbling foot of sportive fawn, 



In silent glen or glade, 

 No squirrel bounding o'er the lawn 



Thy tender cradle made : 

 But the poet's eye back glancing, 



Can sing of thy natal day, 

 When the streamlets in light seem'd dancing, 



And the woods did their homage pay. 



A maiden placed thee, forest tree, 



Where thou art standing now, 

 No care depress'd her thoughts of glee, 



No crown was on her brow ; 



