THE OAK OF OUR FATHERS.

ALAS for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

It grew and it flourish'd for many an age, And many a tempest wreak'd on it its rage; But when its strong branches were bent with the blast, It struck its roots deeper, and flourish'd more fast.

Its head tower'd on high, and its branches spread round,

For its roots were struck deep, and its heart was

sound;

The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd,

And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade.

The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear,

Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her spear, Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood

In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk,
It struck in its mouth and the juices it drunk;
The branches grew sickly deprived of their food,
And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood.

The foresters saw and they gather'd around,
The roots still were fast, and the heart still was sound;
They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread,
But the ivy they spared on its vitals that fed.

No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews play'd, Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade; Lopt and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen, A monument now what its beauty has been.

The Oak has received its incurable wound,

They have loosen'd the roots, though the heart may

be sound;

What the travellers at distance green-flourishing see,

Are the leaves of the ivy that poison'd the tree.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

1798.

THE BATTLE OF PULTOWA.

ON Vorska's glittering waves
The morning sun-beams play;
PULTOWA'S walls are throng'd

With eager multitudes;
Athwart the dusty vale
They strain their aching eyes,

Where to the fight moves on

The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.

Him Famine hath not tamed,

The tamer of the brave;

Him Winter hath not quell'd;

When man by man his veteran troops sunk down,

Frozen to their endless sleep,

He held undaunted on;

Him Pain hath not subdued.

What though he mounts not now

The fiery steed of war,

Borne on a litter to the fight he goes.

Go, iron-hearted King!

Full of thy former fame.
Think how the humbled Dane

Crouch'd to thy victor sword;
Think how the wretched Pole

Resign'd his conquer'd crown;

Go, iron-hearted King!

Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast,.. The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawn'd Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen That on thy shame shall set!

Now bend thine head from heaven,

Now Patkul be revenged!

For o'er that bloody Swede.

Ruin hath raised his arm;

For ere the night descends,