They glanced upon the tall young Oak,
And quickly passed it by,
And laughing harshly, said ’twould do
By the next century.
Soon through the forest’s solemn glades
There rang that deathful sound,
The woodman’s axe;—and crashing fell
Trunks, branches, all around.
Craftsmen of many kinds there came
For that oak timber good,
And carried it in loads away
From its old native wood.
Some floated far o’er ocean’s waves
Mid stormy winds and squalls,
Both merchant-ships, and men-of-war,
“Old England’s Wooden Walls.”
Some, raised on high, with rare device
The royal roof support,
And look down in the banquet-hall
On king, and queen, and court.
Some, quaintly carved, and polished fair,
May shrine a pictured face,
Of Dolci’s gentle loveliness,
Or Raphael’s angel grace.
And many a toilet mirror owes,
Its flowered and gilded frame
To the good trees of which I sing:—
Well have they won their fame!
And massive tables, that have once
Groaned ’neath baronial fare,
If they could talk of that Oak wood,
Might tell of dwelling there.—
The young Oak tree yet statelier grew,
And broader spread its shade,
And the dappled deer lay sheltered ’neath
The canopy it made.
Years came and went.—The Oak tree stood
In full-grown prime and pride,
And lords of various mind and mood
Possessed those woodlands wide.