188 atfidti afe 



One lonely spot, which oft, in solemn mood, 

 Men have gazed on in ages long gone by, 



Where stands that relic of the good green wood, 

 The aged oak, prompting a tear or sigh ; 



That lonely spot gleams o'er the misty scene, 



Catching the splendour of the dazzling sheen. 



And, aye, the lichens that have fixed deep 

 Their tiny roots within the furrowed bough ; 



And one small flower, which still her vigils keep, 

 The blue forget-me-not, are glowing now, 



In characters, methinks, of living flame, 



Seeming to print the old oak's massy frame. 



It looks as if a bright and sudden beam, 



Within that oak, broke forth with fervid ray, 



Tinting its old boughs with a golden gleam, 

 Bright as the deep glow of the parting day ; 



Tempting the passer-by to linger still, 



Amid the deep'ning gloom that broods o'er dale and 

 hill. 



Ah ! linger still, nor fear the chill night-wind ; 



It conies not yet, for scarce the sun is gone ! 

 Each living emblem, speaking to the mind, 



May counsel well, and cheer, if reft and lone, 

 Thy sad thoughts, earthward bend, giving but little heed 

 To signs of mercy near, waiting each hour of need. 



