Oak.... Nobility

The form of the Oak tree, when grown fairly and naturally, is a perfect emblem of its qualities, so firm set, so massive, and strong. You may always know it instantly, whether as a wintry skeleton form, bare, and gnarled, and angular, or in its summer garb of rich and finely massed foliage, always the monarch of the woods.

True is, that whilome that good poet said,
The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known,
For man by nothing is so well bewrayed
As by his manners, in which plain is shown
Of what degree and what race he is grown.

Spenser.

How vain are all hereditary honours,
Those poor possessions from another’s deeds,
Unless our own just virtues form our title,
And give a sanction to our fond assumption!

Shirley.

Whoe’er amidst the sons
Of reason, valour, liberty, and virtue,
Displays distinguished merit, is a noble
Of nature’s own creating. Such have risen,
Sprung from the dust; or where had been our honours?

Thomson.

life of an oak tree.

Long centuries have come and passed
Since, in a stormy wind,
An acorn fell one autumn day,
Like thousands of his kind.

The wild swine fed in the forests then,
And hungry beasts were they;
They crunched the mast where’er it fell,
And they feasted well that day.

But as they trampled all about
With heavy hoofs, they trod
That acorn—perchance hundreds more—
Deep in the yielding sod.

Years came and went.—The acorn grew
And became a young Oak tree;
With a slender, straight, and flexile stem,
Dressed in rich greenery.

Time passeth on.—The young tree rose
A bold and noble thing;
Each summer showed a leafier crest,
And a longer shoot each spring.

There came into the ancient wood
Some stern official men;
They marked the fairest, loftiest trees,
And they were doomèd then.

They glanced upon the tall young Oak,
And quickly passed it by,
And laughing harshly, said ’twould do
By the next century.

Soon through the forest’s solemn glades
There rang that deathful sound,
The woodman’s axe;—and crashing fell
Trunks, branches, all around.

Craftsmen of many kinds there came
For that oak timber good,
And carried it in loads away
From its old native wood.

Some floated far o’er ocean’s waves
Mid stormy winds and squalls,
Both merchant-ships, and men-of-war,
“Old England’s Wooden Walls.”

Some, raised on high, with rare device
The royal roof support,
And look down in the banquet-hall
On king, and queen, and court.

Some, quaintly carved, and polished fair,
May shrine a pictured face,
Of Dolci’s gentle loveliness,
Or Raphael’s angel grace.

And many a toilet mirror owes,
Its flowered and gilded frame
To the good trees of which I sing:—
Well have they won their fame!

And massive tables, that have once
Groaned ’neath baronial fare,
If they could talk of that Oak wood,
Might tell of dwelling there.—

The young Oak tree yet statelier grew,
And broader spread its shade,
And the dappled deer lay sheltered ’neath
The canopy it made.

Years came and went.—The Oak tree stood
In full-grown prime and pride,
And lords of various mind and mood
Possessed those woodlands wide.

The first, a reckless forester,
Loved horse, and hawk, and hound,
And he chased all o’er his wide domains,
Wellnigh the whole year round.

His lady fair, as dames were wont,
In those long bygone days,
Loved hawking too; and gallant trains
She led through forest ways.

’Twas a merry and a winsome thing,
When lord, and squire, and knight
Rode forth, mid bugles ringing shrill,
With dainty ladies bright,
To sweep along by vale and hill,
Or through the forest glade,
Where the echoes of their laughter light
A merry music made.

And oft they reined their palfreys in
Beneath the young Oak tree,
And oft foretold how grand a thing
In after-time ’twould be.

These jocund sports passed all away;
For direful civil war
Spread its fell curse throughout the land,
Wasting it near and far.

And the next lord these broad lands had,
A warrior stern was he,
He dwelt with camps and cannon more
Than sylvan glade and tree.

He died in battle; and his lands
By craft and deeds unfair,
His brother claimed and won, although
His infant son was heir.

This hard, bad man was miserly,
And loved no thing save gold;
He soon marked out the stately tree,
To be cut down and sold.

What was its beauty unto him?—
The grand and noble thing!
His dull eyes only measured well
What moneys it would bring.

But while he doomed the lordly oak,
His wicked life ebbed low,
And suddenly, death summoned him
From his ill-got hoards to go.

The grand estate—the ancient hall,
The woods, and wealth untold,
Came then unto that warrior’s child,
A boy of ten years old.

He was a thoughtful, quiet boy,
For though yet young in years,
His mother’s sorrows and his own
Had made him old in tears.

And with a calm and gentle joy
Came home that youthful heir,
For his chief source of gladness was,
To bring his mother there:—

To watch her sadly smile to see
Again each well-known spot,
Where days of happiness had passed,
That ne’er could be forgot:—

To have her former state restored,
Maidens, and serving-men;
And garments, richer than of old,
He bade them bring her then.

The gardens, that the miser had
Left all untrimmed and bare,
Were planted, pruned, and decked anew,
And stored with all things rare.

But chiefly did the lady love
One glade within the wood,
The shady glade, where broad and high,
The noble Oak tree stood.

Sad memories, yet sweet ones too,
For her that lone spot bore:
’Twas there she parted from her lord
To meet on earth no more!

’Twas there, beneath that tree, he spoke
His last, last fond farewell!
From thence she watched him ride away
The eve before he fell:—
No marvel that sad lady loved
The silent spot so well!

And there they oft together came,
The lady and the boy,
For he to her was all on earth,
Her one sole living joy.

And long years after, when she slept
Her warrior’s tomb beside,
When the boy had grown an aged man,
With grandsons by his side:—

That ancient wood he reverenced;
And peasants, when they spoke
Of the old tree within the glade,
Called it—the Lady’s Oak.

I know the spot—though strangely time
Hath altered all around,
Where once the forest’s stillness lay,
Now whirling wheels resound.

A large and busy peopled town
E’en on that spot we see,
Where dappled deer and timid birds
Dwelt fearlessly and free.

But I remember when a child,
One old and mouldering shell
Of a most ancient, huge Oak tree
Stood near the public well.

I’ve sat within it many a time,
In childish sport and play,
And much I mourned to see at last
The trunk quite cleared away.

Soon they built there a fine new street,
And noisy coaches sweep
With roar and riot,—even where
That lady came to weep!

Each passing year we note a change
In ancient things and new;
And if we see so much in one,
What may not hundreds do?

Louisa A. Twamley.

There’s no power
In ancestry, to make the foolish wise,
The ignorant learned, the cowardly and base
Deserving our respect as brave and good.
All men feel this: nor dares the despot say
His fiat can endow with truth the soul,
Or, like a pension, on the heart bestow
The virtues current in the realms above.
Hence man’s best riches must be gained—not given;
His noblest name deserved, and not derived.

Mrs. Hale.

Some men are born to endure the toil and strife
And heavy burdens of the earth. They are
The pillars in the temple of this life,
Its strength and ornament; or, hidden far
Beneath, they form its firm foundation-stone.
In nobleness they stand distinct and lone,
Yet other men upon them lean, and fain
(Such selfishness in human bosoms swells)
Would lay on them the weight of their own pain.
Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells;
They least repine who bear and suffer most:
In still and stern endurance they sustain
The ills whereof all weaker minds complain;
And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast.

MacKellar.