To An Old Oak.

Immota manet; multosque nepotes,         Multa virm volvens durando scula, vincit.     VIRG.     Round thee, alas, no shadows move!     From thee no sacred murmurs breathe!     Yet within thee, thyself a grove,     Once did the eagle scream above,         And the wolf howl beneath.     There once the steel-clad knight reclin'd,     His sable plumage tempest-toss'd;     And, as the death-bell smote the wind,     From towers long fled by human kind,         His brow the hero cross'd!     Then Culture came, and days serene,     And village-sports, and garlands gay.     Full many a pathway cross'd the green;     And maids and shepherd-youths were seen,         To celebrate the May.     Father of many a forest deep,     (Whence many a navy thunder-fraught)     Erst in their acorn-cells asleep,     Soon destin'd o'er the world to sweep,         Opening new spheres of thought!     Wont in the night of woods to dwell,     The holy druid saw thee rise;     And, planting there the guardian-spell,     Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell         Of human sacrifice!     Thy singed top and branches bare     Now straggle in the evening sky;     And the wan moon wheels round to glare     On the long corse that shivers there         Of him who came to die!