University of Virginia Library

MY OAK.

O immemorial oak, that standest still
As though a part of this old centuried hill,
First sown when other stars were in the sky
Root not of earth but of eternity;
Thou art my comrade and my kin, thy state
Is bound with me in one mysterious fate,
Told by the furrows of Time's equal plough
And iron rustling of each wrinkled bough
Through which the garish rays can hardly shine,
With leaves as awful as the Sibylline
And intermurmurous airs in mid green gloom
Burdened with woe and pendulous with doom.
To me thou art no common growth, a thing
That gives us shade or rests the raven's wing
Furled for a season on that withered branch;
But something far more human, if more staunch
Than mortal men, who scarce with toil and tears
Attain the measure of a hundred years
In trembling want and weakness. Thou art yet
Strong, though a thousand summers on thee set
And kingdoms wove and then unwove fresh ties
With races new and reverend dynasties.
Yea, thou art history, England's and my own,
And with our country hast to greatness grown
A living portion of her mind and might
And glorious with her mingled clouds and light,
Firm with the fibre and the gallant grain
Which made her sons indignant of all stain
Indomitable; wrestling with the storm
And fattening on its rage, thy giant form
(When lesser stems of lighter stuff went by)
Clomb to its crown and grand maturity
Of mellow ease that is a sure defence,
The seasoned pomp of its magnificence.
Beneath thy dome of ages statesmen walked
Serene, intent on high affairs, and talked
Of empire and its conduct with calm brows
That breathed eternal faith and solemn vows,
And out of fancy into substance wrought
Fair constitutions with imperial thought.
Here came the clash of weaponed strife, when lords
Had hotter blood and quicklier played with swords
Than fence of speech, and noble blood was spilled;
And here the sighs of silken lovers thrilled
Thy dreadful shadows, and wild eyes were wet
With passion and red lips betrothing met.
The ravening Roman eagle and the Dane
Who brought the scent of seas with battle bane,
The Saxon wassail and the Norman pride
All found a ready refuge at thy side,
With wolf and boar and outlaws fiercer far,
And left some fragrance or a scornful scar.
Long generations here of childhood held
Their pastimes from the splendid days of Eld,
And sported in the shelter of thine arms
Or slept a season, drinking rosier charms
From commune with thy majesty. And here
Enkindled with the generous atmosphere,
The poet now takes comfort in thy powers,
Renews his youth and puts forth other flowers
Upon this storied ground, the citadel
Of Time, where thou art set as sentinel
And at the marriage of the earth and sky,
The lonely outpost of Eternity.