Who liv'd, when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods; And Time hath made thee what thou art a cave For owls to roost in! Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks, That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample cope Uncrouded, yet safe-shelter'd from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast out-liv'd Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth! While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship-first a seedling, hid in grass; Then twig; then sapling; and, as cen'try roll'd Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root What exhibitions various hath the world Witness'd of mutability in all, That we account most durable below! In all that live, plant, animal, and man, And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads, Fine, passing thought, e'en in her coarsest works, Delight in agitation, yet sustain The force, that agitates, not unimpair'd, But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe. Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still Of matchless' grandeur, and declension thence, Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root-and time has been That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge,] Knee-Timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet. Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought, but the scoop'd rind, that seems An huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivu❜lets to thy root; Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou could'st ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs, and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, Tho' all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulveriz'd of venality, a shell Stands now and semblance only of itself! Thine arms have left thee. Winds have torn them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild, With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left Proof not contemptible of what she can, But since, although well qualify'd by age One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gaz'd, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, Nor ow'd articulation to his ear; But, moulded by his Maker into man |