And long years after, when she slept
Her warrior’s tomb beside,
When the boy had grown an aged man,
With grandsons by his side:—
That ancient wood he reverenced;
And peasants, when they spoke
Of the old tree within the glade,
Called it—the Lady’s Oak.
I know the spot—though strangely time
Hath altered all around,
Where once the forest’s stillness lay,
Now whirling wheels resound.
A large and busy peopled town
E’en on that spot we see,
Where dappled deer and timid birds
Dwelt fearlessly and free.
But I remember when a child,
One old and mouldering shell
Of a most ancient, huge Oak tree
Stood near the public well.
I’ve sat within it many a time,
In childish sport and play,
And much I mourned to see at last
The trunk quite cleared away.
Soon they built there a fine new street,
And noisy coaches sweep
With roar and riot,—even where
That lady came to weep!
Each passing year we note a change
In ancient things and new;
And if we see so much in one,
What may not hundreds do?
There’s no power
In ancestry, to make the foolish wise,
The ignorant learned, the cowardly and base
Deserving our respect as brave and good.
All men feel this: nor dares the despot say
His fiat can endow with truth the soul,
Or, like a pension, on the heart bestow
The virtues current in the realms above.
Hence man’s best riches must be gained—not given;
His noblest name deserved, and not derived.