Without a memory on my sullen course
By the black city to the tossing seas!’
RICHARD
So might this old oak say ’My heart is sere;
With greater effort every year I force
My stubborn leafage: soon my branch will crack,
And I shall fall or perish in the wrack:
And here another tree its crown will rear,
And see for centuries the boys at play:
And ’neath its boughs, on some fine holiday,