Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/208

208 Like her of Endor, wakes the hoary sire, Wrapt in the shadowy mantle of the grave, Gives to the matron form the custom'd seat At board and hearth, or with the joyous shout Of childhood, and the warbled song of youth Fills these deserted halls. —But thou, firm Oak! Time-honour'd and majestic, who didst lock Our freedom's charter in thy sacred breast, From tyranny's eagle-glance, we need not say Farewell to thee. For thou dost freshly take Thy leafy garland from the hand of spring, And wear the autumnal crown as vigorously, As if thou ne'er hadst mark'd old Time shred off, Age after age, man's branching hopes, and blast His root of glory. Canst thou tell us nought Of forest chieftains, and their vanish'd tribes, Who like the bubble on the waters broke Before our sires? Hast thou no record left Of perish'd generations, o'er whose head Thy foliage droop'd? thou who unchanged hast seen The stately founders of an honour'd name, The wise, the brave, the beautiful go down To the dark winter of the voiceless tomb, Like thy own wither'd leaves? —Bloom on! Bloom on! Thou silent monitor, and should our sons, Gay with the cup of full prosperity, Forget the labours of their patriot sires, Be thou as Delphos to them, with thy frown Oracular, warning them well to heed The sumless price of blood-bought liberty.