THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK.
A mighty growth! The county side
Lamented when the Giant died,
For England loves her trees:
What misty legends round him cling!
How lavishly he once did fling
His acorns to the breeze!
To strike a thousand roots in fame,
To give the district half its name,
The fiat could not hinder;
Last spring he put forth one green bough,—
The red leaves hang there still,—but now
His very props are tinder.
Elate, the thunderbolt he braved,
Long centuries his branches waved
A welcome to the blast;
An oak of broadest girth he grew,
And woodman never dared to do
What Time has done at last.
The monarch wore a leafy crown,
And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down,
Found shelter at his foot;
Unnumbered squirrels gambolled free,
Glad music filled the gallant tree
From stem to topmost shoot.
And it were hard to fix the tale
Of when he first peered forth a frail
Petitioner for dew;
No Saxon spade disturbed his root,
The rabbit spared the tender shoot,
And valiantly he grew,
And showed some inches from the ground
When Saint Augustine came and found
Us very proper Vandals:
When nymphs owned bluer eyes than hose,
When England measured men by blows,
And measured time by candles.