Classic Poem

" Here Pope first sung! " O, hallow'd Tree!
— Such is the boast thy bark displays;
— Thy branches, like thy Patron's lays,
Shall ever, ever, sacred be;
— Nor with'ring storm, nor woodman's stroke,
— Shall harm the Poet's favourite Oak.

'Twas here, he woo'd his Muse of fire,
— While Inspiration's wond'rous art,
— Sublimely stealing thro' his heart
Did Fancy's proudest themes inspire:
— 'Twas here he wisely learnt to smile
— At empty praise, and courtly guile.

Retir'd from flatt'ring, specious arts,
— From fawning sycophants of state,
— From knaves, with ravag'd wealth elate,
And little Slaves with tyrant Hearts;
— In conscious freedom nobly proud,
— He scorn'd the envious, grov'ling crowd.

Tho' splendid Domes around them rise,
— And pompous Titles lull to rest
— Each strugg'ling Virtue in the breast,
'Till Pow'r the place of worth supplies;
— The wretched herd can never know
— The sober joys these haunts bestow.

Does the fond Muse delight to dwell,
— Where freezing Penance spreads its shade?
— When scarce the Sun's warm beams pervade
The hoary Hermit's dreary cell?
— Ah! no — There, Superstition blind,
— With torpid languor chills the mind.

Or, does she seek Life's busy scene,
— Ah! no, the sordid, mean, and proud,
— The little, trifling, flutt'ring crowd,
Can never taste her bliss serene;
— She flies from Fashion's tinsel toys,
— Nor courts her smile, nor shares her joys.

Nor can the dull pedantic mind,
— E'er boast her bright creative fires;
— Above constraint her wing aspires,
Nor rigid spells her flight can bind;
— The narrow track of musty schools,
— She leaves to plodding vapid Fools.

To scenes like these she bends her way,
— Here the best feelings of the soul
— Nor interest taints, nor threats controul,
Nor vice allures, nor snares betray;
— Here from each trivial hope remov'd,
— Our Bard first sought the Muse he lov'd.

Still shall thy pensive gloom diffuse,
— The verse sublime, the dulcet song;
— While round the Poet's seat shall throng,
Each rapture sacred to the Muse;
— Still shall thy verdant branches be
— The bow'r of wond'rous minstrelsy.

When glow-worms light their little fires,
— The am'rous Swain and timid Maid
— Shall sit and talk beneath thy shade,
As Eve's last rosy tint expires;
— While on thy boughs the plaintive Dove,
— Shall learn from them the tale of Love.

When round the quiv'ring moon-beams play,
— And Fairies form the grassy ring,
— 'Till the shrill Lark unfurls his wing,
And soars to greet the blushing day;
— The Nightingale shall pour to thee,
— Her Song of Love-lorn Melody.

When, thro' the forest dark and drear,
— Full oft, as ancient stories say,
— Old Herne the hunter loves to stray,
While village damsels quake with fear;
— Nor sprite or spectre, shall invade
— The still repose that marks thy shade.

Blest Oak! thy mossy trunk shall be
— As lasting as the Laurel's bloom
— That deck's immortal Virgil's tomb,
And fam'd as Shakspere's hallow'd Tree;
— For every grateful Muse shall twine
— A votive Wreath to deck thy shrine.

" Here Pope first sung! " O, hallow'd Tree!
— Such is the boast thy bark displays;
— Thy branches, like thy Patron's lays,
Shall ever, ever, sacred be;
— Nor with'ring storm, nor woodman's stroke,
— Shall harm the Poet's favourite Oak.

'Twas here, he woo'd his Muse of fire,
— While Inspiration's wond'rous art,
— Sublimely stealing thro' his heart
Did Fancy's proudest themes inspire:
— 'Twas here he wisely learnt to smile
— At empty praise, and courtly guile.

Retir'd from flatt'ring, specious arts,
— From fawning sycophants of state,
— From knaves, with ravag'd wealth elate,
And little Slaves with tyrant Hearts;
— In conscious freedom nobly proud,
— He scorn'd the envious, grov'ling crowd.

Tho' splendid Domes around them rise,
— And pompous Titles lull to rest
— Each strugg'ling Virtue in the breast,
'Till Pow'r the place of worth supplies;
— The wretched herd can never know
— The sober joys these haunts bestow.

Does the fond Muse delight to dwell,
— Where freezing Penance spreads its shade?
— When scarce the Sun's warm beams pervade
The hoary Hermit's dreary cell?
— Ah! no — There, Superstition blind,
— With torpid languor chills the mind.

Or, does she seek Life's busy scene,
— Ah! no, the sordid, mean, and proud,
— The little, trifling, flutt'ring crowd,
Can never taste her bliss serene;
— She flies from Fashion's tinsel toys,
— Nor courts her smile, nor shares her joys.

Nor can the dull pedantic mind,
— E'er boast her bright creative fires;
— Above constraint her wing aspires,
Nor rigid spells her flight can bind;
— The narrow track of musty schools,
— She leaves to plodding vapid Fools.

To scenes like these she bends her way,
— Here the best feelings of the soul
— Nor interest taints, nor threats controul,
Nor vice allures, nor snares betray;
— Here from each trivial hope remov'd,
— Our Bard first sought the Muse he lov'd.

Still shall thy pensive gloom diffuse,
— The verse sublime, the dulcet song;
— While round the Poet's seat shall throng,
Each rapture sacred to the Muse;
— Still shall thy verdant branches be
— The bow'r of wond'rous minstrelsy.

When glow-worms light their little fires,
— The am'rous Swain and timid Maid
— Shall sit and talk beneath thy shade,
As Eve's last rosy tint expires;
— While on thy boughs the plaintive Dove,
— Shall learn from them the tale of Love.

When round the quiv'ring moon-beams play,
— And Fairies form the grassy ring,
— 'Till the shrill Lark unfurls his wing,
And soars to greet the blushing day;
— The Nightingale shall pour to thee,
— Her Song of Love-lorn Melody.

When, thro' the forest dark and drear,
— Full oft, as ancient stories say,
— Old Herne the hunter loves to stray,
While village damsels quake with fear;
— Nor sprite or spectre, shall invade
— The still repose that marks thy shade.

Blest Oak! thy mossy trunk shall be
— As lasting as the Laurel's bloom
— That deck's immortal Virgil's tomb,
And fam'd as Shakspere's hallow'd Tree;
— For every grateful Muse shall twine
— A votive Wreath to deck thy shrine.