Loves silent shades and arbors darkly wreath'd,
And walks dim-lighted by the chequering moon,
While Fancy with the groups of other days
Fills yon deserted halls.
But thou, brave Oak!
Time-honor'd and majestic, who didst lock
Our germ of freedom in thy sacred breast,
Baffling the tyrant's wrath, we will not say
Farewell to thee. For thou dost freshly take
A leafy garland from the hand of Spring,
And bear the autumnal crown as vigorously
As if thou ne'er hadst seen gray Time shred off
Man's branching hopes, age after age, and blast
His root of glory.
Speak, and tell us tales
Of forest chieftains, and their warring tribes,
Who, like the bubble on the waters, fled
Before our sires. Hast thou no record left
Of perish'd generations, o'er whose prime
Thy foliage droop'd?—thou who unchanged hast seen
The wise, the strong, the beautiful go down
To the dark winter of the voiceless tomb?
Oh! flourish on in healthful honor still,
Thou silent Monitor; and should our sons
E'er in the madness of prosperity
Forget the virtues of their patriot-sires,
Be thou a Delphos, warning them to heed
The sumless price of blood-bought liberty.
The same lyre, half a century after, struck its mournful strings in a dirge for the "fallen Oak, the monarch of the plain." A violent storm, on the night
