Poems (Hoffman)/Lament of the Fallen Oak
LAMENT OF THE FALLEN OAK
"Alas, and is it true that I no moreShall stand in pride and beauty as of yore,Strength for my throne and grandeur for my crown,Might for my scepter? Who has thrown me down?Who dared to smite the monarch of the wood?I, who for many centuries withstoodThe storm-king's anger and the wind-fiend's wrathDethroning many others in their path,Stripping the leafy forests, thunderingDown the wild canyons, ever mutteringIn baffled rage as firm beneath their frownI stood, defying aught to tear me down.The forest fires lit up the woods with flameI knew not where they went or whence they came,The crackling underbrush, the blazing grass,Smoldered to ashes, and I saw them pass;Flame after flame in madness leaping highLighting the woods, the mountains and the sky;Yet stood I like some armored, dauntless knightUnscathed, unshrinking in the thickest fight;Even the long, grey, lightly flowing mossOn limb and twig still free in sport to tossTo every breeze that hummed its lullabyThrough the high branches of the old oak tree.The sound of the wood-chopper as at mornWaked the still echoes and as downward borneTo the same soil from which they one day sprangThe trees returned, the dim old forest rang.Crash! And the highest were forever low;Then fell the chopper's axe, blow after blowResounding through the forest 'till at lastNothing was left to whisper of their pastBut the low stumps decaying in the groundAnd the dry brush of branches strewn around; Yet towering still above their sudden fallI stood unshaken, monarch over all;But now, alas, why vanished triumphs tell?On me at last the lot of nature fell,No storm of terror shook my bulwarks downNo war of elements laid low my crown,No burning fiery furnace scathed my bark,No lightning arrow chose me for its mark,No feeble instrument in feebler handForbade my leafy throne to longer stand;But fell the gentle rain from clouds aboveOn field and forest, mountain, plain and grove'Till countless springs stray rivulets suppliedAnd swelled the torrent to a rushing tide'Till every hill-slope shone with silver threads,With tiny pebbles in their shallow beds,With sap refreshed and leaves of brighter greenI gazed in gladness on the freshened scene;But every leaf was weighed with rain-drops downAnd heavier grew my lofty, leafy crown.The mistletoe adorning every boughSeemed like a mighty weight of metal now,And still the rain-drops fell though every hillSeemed gushing forth in gurgling spring and rill;And still the clouds poured down their crystal floodSwelling each purling stream and bursting bud;When a slight tremor through my being ran,A shiver midst my highest twigs began,A loosening midst the roots embedded deepIn the firm earth, where centuries saw them creep'Till grown to giant strength and giant sizeThey bade the sapling high and higher rise;Upheaving earth, uptearing rocks around—Hush! Through the silent glades a thundering sound,A crash of splintering boughs, an awful thud—And then oppressive silence in the wood.Alas, my fall! The little birds no more Shall sing among my branches as of yore,Their last year's nests have shared my sudden doomNo more in early Springtime will they comeWith twitters of artless ecstasyTo build their dwellings in the old oak tree;No more with tiny wings raised timidlyFrom twig to twig the baby-birds shall flyAnd try their first weak songs beneath the leavesThat to their cozy homes were roof and eaves.Ye pigeons, that with fluttering pinions stayedTo gather acorns in the deepest shade,Ye red-winged blackbirds that year after yearIn earliest Spring were wont to gather hereHolding the season's first grand jubileeAmong the branches of the old oak tree,Why more upon your vanished music dwellSince all is past? My feathered friends—farewell.Ye frisking squirrels that to your burrows boreMy plenteous acorns for your Winter store,Ye lambs that nibbled the young grass belowAnd frolicked where the wild-flowers loved to blow,Green grow the fields and blue the Summer skyBut as for me—a last and long—goodbye.Ye cheerful wind-flowers that with dewy breathFreighted the sunshine and shade beneath,Fair, frail nemophilas in freshness grownBy Nature's hand in rich profusion sownWith wide blue eyes in loveliness upraisedThat oft through dew-drop tears so sweetly gazedOr clear as bluest depths of Summer skyLooked up to those blue heavens lovingly,And dainty cream-cups mingling with the blue,Bright, tender wild-flowers evermore—adieu.And thou, encircling stream, that at my footDidst fall in cascades over rock and root Where fairy fern-fronds like Narcissus vainTheir graceful forms saw mirrored back againIn glassy pools below the cascade's fallAnd waved to every zephyr's breezy call,I saw thee every year farther below,Thou saw'st my rise, my reign, my overthrow;Again the wild deer shall the grasses pressThat carpet all around with loveliness,Again the hunter rest upon the brinkOf the cool stream and from its waters drink;But nevermore shall my inviting shadeShield the fierce heat of Summer from the glade:Trailing in dust are all my hoary plumesWhile every sunny hour my life consumes,And long grey moss and broken mistletoeLie strewn around like cerements of woe.I envy now the tules by yonder lakeThat bend to every gale but do not break,The tallest, half way sunk in waters deep,Their feeble roots through mire and driftings creep;Yet I, with giant roots through rock-beds woundOr firmly fastened in the solid ground,I, who once called them weak, and small and low,Fain would be growing as I see them grow.But why my common heritage deplore?The bravest warrior finds his triumphs o'er,The mightiest king laments the fatal hourWhen ruined lies the scepter of his power;And I have lived while empires rose and fellAnd kings lived out their little day as well;Yet I who stood for centuries the same,Chanting the triumph song of power and fame,Now lie with all my vaunted vigor spentThe vanity of pride my last lament!"