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XXIV
THE OAK.
Say not that always on immortal thingsDid the old Greeks their lyric thoughts bestow;
Not always from his fountain's highest flow
Called they the steed with cloud-surpassing wings.
But the sweet voice of Heliconian springs
Came leaping to their hearts in plains below;
Under some oak: and they the Gods let go;
Hymning his shade to their memorial strings.
Few are they now on the impatient earth,
Those harborous giants, sons of many days;
For time bears hardly on heroic birth;
Bringing vile use to eke his cold decays:
Or hurls them down for winter's boisterous mirth;
But birds and poets still find some to praise.
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