 | The Outcast, and other poems |  |
188
SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION.
The oak that long defies the blast
Must feel Times's hungry tooth at last—
Though gnarled and knit with giant strength,
Though deep its root, it fails at length.
Its bark is to the earth resigned,
Its leaves are scattered on the wind,
And ne'er can vernal sun or rain
Restore those palsied limbs again.
Yet there it stands—that noble oak,
Scarred with full many a thunder-stroke,
The remnant of a mighty race,
Now passed and in their resting-place!
Yet gath'ring round their aged sire
The sapling woods to heaven aspire,
While close and clinging to its root
There springs a fair and favorite shoot,
Which seems in youthful strength to be
The semblance of that grandsire tree.
The winter winds that rustle by
That tall stern oak with hollow sigh,
Seem to the listening trees beneath,
Some legends of the past to breathe,
Telling of days when round it stood,
Trees like itself, a sturdy wood,
That side by side, received the shock
Of storm and whirlwind like a rock—
Staying the rough blast in its wrath,
As if a mountain crossed its path—
And back the refluent tempest bore—
Must feel Times's hungry tooth at last—
Though gnarled and knit with giant strength,
Though deep its root, it fails at length.
Its bark is to the earth resigned,
Its leaves are scattered on the wind,
And ne'er can vernal sun or rain
Restore those palsied limbs again.
Yet there it stands—that noble oak,
Scarred with full many a thunder-stroke,
The remnant of a mighty race,
Now passed and in their resting-place!
Yet gath'ring round their aged sire
The sapling woods to heaven aspire,
While close and clinging to its root
There springs a fair and favorite shoot,
Which seems in youthful strength to be
The semblance of that grandsire tree.
The winter winds that rustle by
189
Seem to the listening trees beneath,
Some legends of the past to breathe,
Telling of days when round it stood,
Trees like itself, a sturdy wood,
That side by side, received the shock
Of storm and whirlwind like a rock—
Staying the rough blast in its wrath,
As if a mountain crossed its path—
And back the refluent tempest bore—
Such is yon veteran of fourscore!
| The Outcast, and other poems | |