 | [The brag of the oak, in] The rose of Sharon |  |
226
THE BRAG OF THE OAK,
AND THE MORAL THAT WAS GOT OUT OF IT.
I'm the gnarléd old king of the deep, deep wood,
And the vassal trees bend their boughs to me;
A cycle of seasons my throne has stood,
And a cycle more its power may see.
And the vassal trees bend their boughs to me;
A cycle of seasons my throne has stood,
And a cycle more its power may see.
I'm a gnarléd and tough old sprout enough,
And bend but little to friend or foe;
But friend and foe, if the weather be rough,
May rest my sheltering arms below.
And bend but little to friend or foe;
But friend and foe, if the weather be rough,
May rest my sheltering arms below.
Though lightnings gleam on my emerald crown,
And the thunders rattle above my head,
The nestling is safe in his bed of down,
As when bland airs are round me shed.
And the thunders rattle above my head,
The nestling is safe in his bed of down,
As when bland airs are round me shed.
Though winter lay my branches bare,
And my leaves before its fierce breath fly,
My stout old heart feels not despair—
Sweet heaven shall clothe me by and by.
And my leaves before its fierce breath fly,
My stout old heart feels not despair—
Sweet heaven shall clothe me by and by.
Then spring comes down with ministering aid,
And genial airs my buds evoke,—
The birds once more rejoice in my shade,
With song as sweet as they erst awoke.
And genial airs my buds evoke,—
The birds once more rejoice in my shade,
With song as sweet as they erst awoke.
227
My breast I bare to the summery gales,
That bring me the dews of the meadow brook,
And to beautiful sprites from the flowery vales,
That rustle my leaves like the leaves of a book.
That bring me the dews of the meadow brook,
And to beautiful sprites from the flowery vales,
That rustle my leaves like the leaves of a book.
And proudly I look from my stately height,
At children playing beneath my shade,
And gladly yield my foliage bright
To crown the brow of the beauteous maid.
At children playing beneath my shade,
And gladly yield my foliage bright
To crown the brow of the beauteous maid.
Thus gnarléd and rough in my outer guise,
Don't judge my heart by the tone of my bark,
For oaks and men of the burliest size,
The truest and purest hearts may mark.
Don't judge my heart by the tone of my bark,
For oaks and men of the burliest size,
The truest and purest hearts may mark.
'Twere well for mortals, the great world round,
To prize not things by what they seem;
Fair flowers in roughest shrines are found—
Rough souls are lit by the kindliest beam.
To prize not things by what they seem;
Fair flowers in roughest shrines are found—
Rough souls are lit by the kindliest beam.
| [The brag of the oak, in] The rose of Sharon | |