'Neath agèd oak of Elderslie
Five centuries tell the tale How, at the name of Scotland's Chief
Her enemies turned pale.
An English yew-tree speaks her fate
Who, by a despot's breath In brilliant beauty graced a throne,
Then sank in shameful death.
Trees note the spot where Bonaparte
Surrendered at Sedan Ambition's sceptre, framed of guilt
In blood of brother man.
Whilst ever, through the cycling years,
Judea's olive tree Proclaims the sin-fought conflict gained
On dark Gethsemane.
By soul, that in the greening leaf,
The Great Designer sees, Sweet whispers from the Living Life
Are heard among the trees.
And every changing summer hue
Which decks the forest band Low bends in homage grateful hearts
To Him whose faultless hand
Doth sap the seed, and sun the stem,
And rear the structure high; Till emerald censers incense waft
Through fair, cerulean sky.
Whose artist-touch illumes the doole
Of woodland's waning green, With flashing streaks of red and gold,
Sunlit of glorious sheen.
So Faith may gaze, with restful eye,
Across this desert wold; To find the darksome shades of earth
Relieved by Heaven's bright gold.
So Hope may realize that day,
Beside the crystal river, Where, sheltered by the Tree of Life,
Pure joys flow on forever.