208 ©aft. 
They glanced upon the tall young Oak, 
And quickly passed it by, 
And laughing harshly, said ’twould do 
By the next century. 
Soon through the forest’s solemn glades 
There rang that deathful sound, 
The woodman’s axe;—and crashing fell 
Trunks, branches, all around. 
Craftsmen of many kinds there came 
For that oak timber good, 
And carried it in loads away 
From its old native wood. 
Some floated far o’er ocean’s waves 
Mid stormy winds and squalls, 
Both merchant-ships, and man-of-war, 
“Old England’s Wooden Walls.” 
Some, raised on high, with rare device 
The royal roof support, 
And look down in the banquetrhall 
On king, and queen, and court. 
Some, quaintly carved, and polished fair, 
May shrine a pictured face, 
Of Dolci’s gentle loveliness, 
Or Raphael’s angel grace. 
And many a toilet mirror owes, 
Its flowered and gilded frame 
