1850-60.] FLORUS B. PLIMPTON. 583 When Winter rages on the lonely moor, Yokes the swift whirlwind to liis icy car, And in Titanic folds the heavens o'er, Gather's his cloudy banners from afar, And marshals with shrill blasts the ele- ments to war. tlien the sound of the entangled wind Among its boughs, is like the stormy swell Of organ-pipes in fretted walls confined, To roll through arches vast and die in vault and cell. How like the grand old monarch, when the fell And pitiless storm seemed with the world to mock His uncrowned age — and yet how strong and well It braved the storm and bore the tempest's shock. Firm in its native soil as Alpine rock to rock. And well I love that oak ! Not those that shade Thy classic slopes, Mount Ida ; or shake down Their brown-hued fruit, from gnarled boles decayed, Beside the winding Simois ; or crown The horrid steeps where ivied castles frown. And dark-eyed bandits bid th' unwary stand ; Are regal in their centuries of renown As thou, hale oak, whose glories thus com- mand My humble song, pride of all our moun- tain land ! Here rests the poor wayfarer, soiled and worn, And folds his hands in slumbers soft and deep; Here comes the widowed soul her loss to mourn. Counts o'er her trysts, and counts them but to weep ; Here happy lovers blissful unions keep. And bending age its vanished youth de- plores, Or sighs for heaven's sweet rest, life's gentlest sleep, That gives youth back to age, the lost re- stores. And brings the welcoming hands that waft to happier shores. The village maid, who sings among the fields. In wrinkled sorrow sighs her soul away ; The dimpled babe to reverend honors yields. And patriarch Faith sees calmly close the day. Life laughs — loves — dies; afar the years convey On cloudy wings the pleasures we pursue. And still thou piercest the repelling clay, And lift'st thy regal head to heaven's blue, Green with a thousand years of sunshine, rain, and dew. In all thy varied glory thou hast been The idol of my boyhood, and the pride Of more exacting manhood; now, as then, I love to lean thy moss-green trunk be- side, And mingle, with the voices of the tide And thy strange whisperings, my unstudied song. And here recall the dear delights who died Since thy great arms grew obstinately strong — But whose quick feet no more beneath thy shade shall throne:.
