Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/208

Like her of Endor, wakes the hoary sire,
Wrapt in the shadowy mantle of the grave,
Gives to the matron form the custom'd seat
At board and hearth, or with the joyous shout
Of childhood, and the warbled song of youth
Fills these deserted halls.
                                     —But thou, firm Oak!
Time-honour'd and majestic, who didst lock
Our freedom's charter in thy sacred breast,
From tyranny's eagle-glance, we need not say
Farewell to thee. For thou dost freshly take
Thy leafy garland from the hand of spring,
And wear the autumnal crown as vigorously,
As if thou ne'er hadst mark'd old Time shred off,
Age after age, man's branching hopes, and blast
His root of glory. Canst thou tell us nought
Of forest chieftains, and their vanish'd tribes,
Who like the bubble on the waters broke
Before our sires? Hast thou no record left
Of perish'd generations, o'er whose head
Thy foliage droop'd? thou who unchanged hast seen
The stately founders of an honour'd name,
The wise, the brave, the beautiful go down
To the dark winter of the voiceless tomb,
Like thy own wither'd leaves?
                                      —Bloom on! Bloom on!
Thou silent monitor, and should our sons,
Gay with the cup of full prosperity,
Forget the labours of their patriot sires,
Be thou as Delphos to them, with thy frown
Oracular, warning them well to heed
The sumless price of blood-bought liberty.