OAK, that stately and alone On the war-worn mound has grown, The blood of man thy sapling fed, And dyed thy tender root in red; Woe to the feast where foes combine, Woe to the strife of words and wine! Oak, thou hast sprung for many a year, 'Mid whispering rye-grass tall and sear, The coarse rank herb, which seems to show That bones unblest are laid below; Woe to the sword that hates its sheath, Woe to th' unholy trade of death! Oak, from the mountain's airy brow Thou view'st the subject woods below, And merchants hail the well-known tree, Returning o'er the Severn sea. Who, woe to him whose birth is high, For peril waits on royalty! Now storms have bent thee to the ground, And envious ivy clips thee round; And shepherd hinds in wanton play Have stripp'd thy needful bark away; Woe to the man whose foes are strong, Thrice woe to him who lives too long! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DANIEL WEBSTER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES ODES II, 14 by QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS SENTINEL SONGS: 1 by ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN STELLA AND FLAVIA by MARY BARBER FORFEITS by HENRY CUYLER BUNNER TO THE HECTORS, UPON THE UNFORTUNATE DEATH UPON THE DEATH H. COMPTON by JOHN CLEVELAND |