THE OAK. 



27 



of a brother amateur of the forests, to the page before 

 us, will not displease either him or the reader : 



" Than a tree, a grander child earth bears not. 

 What are the boasted palaces of man, 

 Imperial city or triumphal arch, 

 To forests of immeasurable extent. 

 Which Time confirms, which centuries waste not ? 

 Oaks gather strength for ages ; and when at last 

 They wane, so beauteous in decrepitude. 

 So grand in weakness ! E'en in their decay 

 So venerable ! 'Twere sacrilege t' escape 

 The consecrating touch of time. Time watched 

 The blossom on the parent bough. Time saw 

 The acorn loosen from the spray. Time passed 

 While, springing from its swaddling shell, yon Oak 

 The cloud-crown'd monarch of our woods, by thorns 

 Environ'd, scaped the raven's bill, the tooth 

 Of goat and deer, the schoolboy's knife, and sprang 

 A royal hero from his nurse's arms. 

 Time gave it seasons, and Time gave it years, 

 Ages bestow'd, and centuries grudged not : 

 Time knew the sapling when gay summer's breath 

 Shook to the roots the infant Oak, which after 

 Tempests moved not. Time hollow'd in its trunk 

 A tomb for centuries : and buried there 

 The epochs of the rise and fall of states, 

 The fading generations of the world. 

 The memory of man." 



