The fine old Oak hath pass'd away, its noble stem hath shrunk, Till roving footsteps speeding on, leap o'er the sapless trunk; Its glory hath departed, and the wrestler with the storm Is crumbled, till it yields no home to keep the squirrel warm; But bright, green moss is clothing it, all soft, and sweet, and fresh; As true as when it first entwined the sapling in its mesh; It leaveth not the ruin spot, but, beautiful to see, It yearneth still the closer to the old gray tree.
I know this heart must wither, and become as dead a thing; It will not heed the winter-cloud, nor feel the sun of spring; In low, decaying solitude this form ere long shall fade, And moulder 'neath the grave dust, like the tree in forest glade. Oh! let me hope that some kind thoughts will turn toward my name, And glowing breasts that love me now will love me still the same; Let gentle Memory fill the home where once I used to be, And cling to me like green moss to the old gray tree.
