Oak, thou hast sprung for many a year,
'Mid whisp’ring rye-grass tall and sere,
The coarse rank herb, which seems to show
That bones unbless’d are laid below;
Woe to the sword that hates its sheath,
Woe to th’ unholy trade of death!
Oak, from the mountain’s airy brow,
Thou view’st the subject woods below,
And merchants hail the well-known tree,
Returning o’er the Severn sea.