BY PARK BENJAMIN.
Alone thou standest on the sloping green;
In size, in strength, all other trees excelling—
The noblest feature of the rural scene.
Whether with foliage crowned in Summer's glory,
Or stripped of leaves in winter's icy reign,
Grandly thou speakest an unchanging story
Of power and beauty, not bestowed in vain.
I looked upon thee with deep veneration,
When first my soul acknowledged the sublime,
And felt the might and grandeur of creation,
In all that longest braves the shock of Time.
Centuries ago, an acorn, chance-directed,
Fell on the spot, and then a sapling sprung,
From driving winds and beating storms protected
By that kind Heaven which guards the frail and young.
And prouder height with greater age acquiring,
Fair as when suns on thy first verdure smiled,
Thou standest now, a forest lord, aspiring
O'er all thy peers from whom thou art exiled.
Beautiful oak-tree! my most pleasant gambols
Were, with my dear companions, always played
Beneath thy branches, and from farthest rambles
Wearied, we came and rested in thy shade.
Morning and evening, Falls, and Springs, and Summers,
Here was our Freedom, here we romped and sported;
And here by moonlight, happiest of all comers,
In thy dark shadow lovers sat and courted.
And here, when snow in frozen billows bound thee,
Like a white ocean deluging the land,
And smaller trunks, or near or far, were round thee
Like masts of vessels sunken on the strand,
We climbed high up thy naked boughs, enchanted,
Shaking whole sheets of spotless canvas down,
And, by keen frosts and breezes nothing daunted,
Hailed the slow sledges from the neighboring town.
Ah! flown delights! ah! happiness departed!
What have I known like you, since, light and free,
And undefiled, and bold and merry-hearted,
I used to frolic by the old oak-tree!
Through many realms, in various climates roamed,
Speeding away o'er all Earth's wide expansion,
Where icebergs glittered, and where torrents foamed.
From pole to pole, across the hot Equator,
Restless as sea-gulls whirling o'er the deep;
From Snowden's crown to Ætna's fiery crater,
From Indian valley to Caucasian steep;
From Chimborazo, loftiest of all mountains
Trod by man's foot, to Nova Zembla's shore;
From Iceland Hecla's ever-boiling fountains,
To where Cape Horn's incessant surges roar;
From France's vineyards to Antarctic regions,
From England's pastures to Arabia's sands,
From the rude North, with her unnumbered legions,
To the sweet South's depopulated lands;
O'er all those scenes, or beautiful or splendid,
Which man risks wealth, and peace, and life to see,
I roved at will—but all my journeys ended,
Returned to gaze upon the old oak-tree.
But, ah! beneath those broad, outreaching branches,
What other forms, what different feet had strayed,
Since I, a youth, went forth to dare the chances
Which adverse Fortune in my path had laid.
Past my meridian, sinking toward the season
When Hope's horizon is with clouds o'ercast,
When sportive Fancy yields to sober Reason,
I came and questioned the remembered Past.
I came and stood by that oak-tree so hoary,
Forgetting all the intervening years,
Stood on that turf, so blent with childhood's story,
And poured my heart out in one gush of tears.
I had returned to claim my father's dwelling,
Borne like a waif on Time's returning tide—
Summoned I came, by one brief missive telling
That all I left behind and loved had died.
Wiser and sadder than in life's bright morning,
As softly fall the sun's last rays on me,
As when I saw their early glow adorning
The emerald foliage of this old oak-tree.
I.
Beautiful oak-tree! near my father's dwelling,Alone thou standest on the sloping green;
In size, in strength, all other trees excelling—
The noblest feature of the rural scene.
Whether with foliage crowned in Summer's glory,
Or stripped of leaves in winter's icy reign,
Grandly thou speakest an unchanging story
Of power and beauty, not bestowed in vain.
I looked upon thee with deep veneration,
When first my soul acknowledged the sublime,
And felt the might and grandeur of creation,
In all that longest braves the shock of Time.
Centuries ago, an acorn, chance-directed,
Fell on the spot, and then a sapling sprung,
From driving winds and beating storms protected
By that kind Heaven which guards the frail and young.
And prouder height with greater age acquiring,
Fair as when suns on thy first verdure smiled,
Thou standest now, a forest lord, aspiring
O'er all thy peers from whom thou art exiled.
Beautiful oak-tree! my most pleasant gambols
Were, with my dear companions, always played
Beneath thy branches, and from farthest rambles
Wearied, we came and rested in thy shade.
Morning and evening, Falls, and Springs, and Summers,
Here was our Freedom, here we romped and sported;
And here by moonlight, happiest of all comers,
In thy dark shadow lovers sat and courted.
And here, when snow in frozen billows bound thee,
Like a white ocean deluging the land,
And smaller trunks, or near or far, were round thee
Like masts of vessels sunken on the strand,
We climbed high up thy naked boughs, enchanted,
Shaking whole sheets of spotless canvas down,
And, by keen frosts and breezes nothing daunted,
Hailed the slow sledges from the neighboring town.
Ah! flown delights! ah! happiness departed!
What have I known like you, since, light and free,
And undefiled, and bold and merry-hearted,
I used to frolic by the old oak-tree!
II.
Long years ago I left my father's mansion,Through many realms, in various climates roamed,
Speeding away o'er all Earth's wide expansion,
Where icebergs glittered, and where torrents foamed.
From pole to pole, across the hot Equator,
Restless as sea-gulls whirling o'er the deep;
From Snowden's crown to Ætna's fiery crater,
From Indian valley to Caucasian steep;
From Chimborazo, loftiest of all mountains
Trod by man's foot, to Nova Zembla's shore;
From Iceland Hecla's ever-boiling fountains,
To where Cape Horn's incessant surges roar;
From France's vineyards to Antarctic regions,
From England's pastures to Arabia's sands,
From the rude North, with her unnumbered legions,
To the sweet South's depopulated lands;
O'er all those scenes, or beautiful or splendid,
Which man risks wealth, and peace, and life to see,
I roved at will—but all my journeys ended,
Returned to gaze upon the old oak-tree.
But, ah! beneath those broad, outreaching branches,
What other forms, what different feet had strayed,
Since I, a youth, went forth to dare the chances
Which adverse Fortune in my path had laid.
Past my meridian, sinking toward the season
When Hope's horizon is with clouds o'ercast,
When sportive Fancy yields to sober Reason,
I came and questioned the remembered Past.
I came and stood by that oak-tree so hoary,
Forgetting all the intervening years,
Stood on that turf, so blent with childhood's story,
And poured my heart out in one gush of tears.
I had returned to claim my father's dwelling,
Borne like a waif on Time's returning tide—
Summoned I came, by one brief missive telling
That all I left behind and loved had died.
Wiser and sadder than in life's bright morning,
As softly fall the sun's last rays on me,
As when I saw their early glow adorning
The emerald foliage of this old oak-tree.