Its sinews crack,—deep groans declare the reeling anguish of Goliath,
The wedge is driven home,—and the saw is at its heart,—and lo, with solemn slowness,
The shuddering monarch riseth from his throne,—toppled with a crash,—and is fallen!
Now shall the mangled stump teach proud man a lesson:
Now, can we from that elm-tree's sap distil the wine of Truth.
Heed ye those hundred rings, concentric from the core,
Eddying in various waves to the red bark's shore-like rim?
These be the gatherings of yesterdays, present all to-day,
This is the tree's judgment, self-history that cannot be gainsaid: