Classic Poem

A LAS for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

It grew and it flourish'd for many an age,
And many a tempest wreak'd on it its rage;
But when its strong branches were bent with the blast,
It struck its root deeper, and flourish'd more fast.

Its head tower'd on high, and its branches spread round;
For its roots had struck deep, and its heart was sound;
The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd,
And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade.

The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear;
Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her spear.
Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk;
It struck in its mouths and the juices it drunk;
The branches grew sickly, deprived of their food,
And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood.

The foresters saw and they gather'd around;
The roots still were fast, and the heart still was sound;
They lopp'd off the boughs that so beautiful spread,
But the ivy they spared on its vitals that fed.

No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews play'd,
Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade;
Lopp'd and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen,
A monument now what its beauty has been.

The Oak has received its incurable wound;
They have loosen'd the roots, though the heart may be sound;
What the travellers at distance green-flourishing see,
Are the leaves of the ivy that poison'd the tree.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!