The poetical works of Henry Alford Fifth edition, containing many pieces now first collected |
![]() |
![]() |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
XXXIX. |
XL. |
XLI. |
XLII. |
XLIII. |
XLIV. |
XLV. |
XLVI. |
XLVII. |
XLVIII. |
XLIX. |
L. |
LI. |
LII. |
LIII. |
LIV. |
LV. |
LVI. |
LVII. |
LVIII. |
LIX. |
LX. |
LXI. |
LXII. |
LXIII. |
LXIV. |
LXV. |
LXVI. |
LXVII. |
LXVIII. |
LXIX. |
LXX. |
![]() |
LXXI. |
LXXII. |
LXXIII. |
LXXIV. |
LXXV. |
LXXVI. |
LXXVII. |
LXXVIII. |
LXXIX. |
LXXX. |
LXXXI. |
LXXXII. |
LXXXIII. |
LXXXIV. |
LXXXV. |
LXXXVI. |
LXXXVII. |
LXXXVIII. |
LXXXIX. |
XC. |
XCI. |
XCII. |
XCIII. |
XCIV. |
XCV. |
XCVI. |
XCVII. |
XCVIII. |
XCIX. |
C. |
CI. |
CII, CIII. |
![]() |
ON THE AGED OAK
|
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
![]() | The poetical works of Henry Alford | ![]() |
ON THE AGED OAK
AT OAKLEY, SOMERSET. (1832.)
I was a young fair tree:
Each spring with quivering green
My boughs were clad; and far
Down the deep vale, a light
Shone from me on the eyes
Of those who past,—a light
That told of sunny days,
And blossoms and blue sky:
For I was ever first
Of all the grove to hear
The soft voice under ground
Of the warm-working spring;
And ere my brethren stirred
Their sheathed buds, the kine,
And the kine's keeper, came
Slow up the valley-path,
And laid them underneath
My cool and rustling leaves;
And I could feel them there
As in the quiet shade
They stood, with tender thoughts,
That past along their life
Like wings on a still lake,
Blessing me;—and to God,
The blessèd God, who cares
For all my little leaves,
Went up the silent praise;
And I was glad, with joy
Which life of labouring things
Ill knows,—the joy that sinks
Into a life of rest.
Each spring with quivering green
My boughs were clad; and far
Down the deep vale, a light
222
Of those who past,—a light
That told of sunny days,
And blossoms and blue sky:
For I was ever first
Of all the grove to hear
The soft voice under ground
Of the warm-working spring;
And ere my brethren stirred
Their sheathed buds, the kine,
And the kine's keeper, came
Slow up the valley-path,
And laid them underneath
My cool and rustling leaves;
And I could feel them there
As in the quiet shade
They stood, with tender thoughts,
That past along their life
Like wings on a still lake,
Blessing me;—and to God,
The blessèd God, who cares
For all my little leaves,
Went up the silent praise;
And I was glad, with joy
Which life of labouring things
Ill knows,—the joy that sinks
Into a life of rest.
Ages have fled since then:
But deem not my pierced trunk
And scanty leafage serves
No high behest; my name
Is sounded far and wide:
And in the Providence
That guides the steps of men,
Hundreds have come to view
My grandeur in decay;
And there hath passed from me
A quiet influence
Into the minds of men:
The silver head of age,
The majesty of laws,
The very name of God,
And holiest things that are,
Have won upon the heart
Of humankind the more,
For that I stand to meet
With vast and bleaching trunk
The rudeness of the sky.
But deem not my pierced trunk
And scanty leafage serves
No high behest; my name
Is sounded far and wide:
223
That guides the steps of men,
Hundreds have come to view
My grandeur in decay;
And there hath passed from me
A quiet influence
Into the minds of men:
The silver head of age,
The majesty of laws,
The very name of God,
And holiest things that are,
Have won upon the heart
Of humankind the more,
For that I stand to meet
With vast and bleaching trunk
The rudeness of the sky.
![]() | The poetical works of Henry Alford | ![]() |