OAK IN AUTUMN.
Old oak! old oak! the chosen one,
Round which my poet's mesh I twine,
When rosy wakes the joyous sun,
Or, wearied, sinks at day's decline,
I see the frost-king here and there,
Claim some brown leaflet for his own,
Or point in cold derision where
He soon shall rear the usurper's throne.
Too soon! too soon! in crimson bright,
Vain mockery of thy wo, he'll flout,
And proudly climb thy topmost height,
To hang his flaunting signal out;
While thou, as round thine honours fall,
Shalt stand with seam'd and naked bark,
Like banner-staff, so lone and tall,
His ruthless victory to mark.
I, too, old friend, when thou art gone,
Must pensive to my casement go,
Or, like the shuddering Druid, moan
The withering of his mistletoe;
But when young Spring, with matin clear,
Awakes the bird, the stream, the tree,
Fain would I at her call appear,
And hang my slender wreath on thee.
