The fleece-encumbered flock—the Joyful Elm,
Around whose trunk the maidens[690] dance in May—
And the Lord's Oak—would plead their several rights
In vain, if he were master of their fate;
His sentence[691] to the axe would doom them all.
But, green in age and lusty as he is,
And promising to keep his hold on earth[692]
Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men
Than with the forest's more enduring growth,
His own appointed hour will come at last;