Page:Letters of Life.djvu/106

94 Loves silent shades and arbors darkly wreath'd, And walks dim-lighted by the chequering moon, While Fancy with the groups of other days Fills yon deserted halls.
 * But thou, brave Oak!

Time-honor'd and majestic, who didst lock Our germ of freedom in thy sacred breast, Baffling the tyrant's wrath, we will not say Farewell to thee. For thou dost freshly take A leafy garland from the hand of Spring, And bear the autumnal crown as vigorously As if thou ne'er hadst seen gray Time shred off Man's branching hopes, age after age, and blast His root of glory.
 * Speak, and tell us tales

Of forest chieftains, and their warring tribes, Who, like the bubble on the waters, fled Before our sires. Hast thou no record left Of perish'd generations, o'er whose prime Thy foliage droop'd?—thou who unchanged hast seen The wise, the strong, the beautiful go down To the dark winter of the voiceless tomb? Oh! flourish on in healthful honor still, Thou silent Monitor; and should our sons E'er in the madness of prosperity Forget the virtues of their patriot-sires, Be thou a Delphos, warning them to heed The sumless price of blood-bought liberty.

The same lyre, half a century after, struck its mournful strings in a dirge for the "fallen Oak, the monarch of the plain." A violent storm, on the night