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 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 mouths and its 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,

Its roots still were fast, and its 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 rain is seen,
A monument now what its beauty has been.

The Oak has received its incurable wound,

They have loosened the roots, tho' the heart may be sound;
What the travellers at distance green-flourishing see,
Are the leaves of the ivy that poisoned the tree.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood

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

The OLD MAN'S COMFORTS.

And how he gained them.

1

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
The few locks which are left you are grey;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,
Now tell me the reason I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first
That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away,

And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And life must be hastening away;

You are chearful, and love to converse upon death! Now tell me the reason I pray.

I am chearful, young man, Father William replied,
Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remember'd
And He hath not forgotten my age.

my

God!

The EBB TIDE.

Slowly thy flowing tide

Came in, old Avon! scarcely did mine eyes, As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side, Behold the gentle rise.

With many a stroke and strong

The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, And yet the eye beheld them labouring long Between thy winding shores.

Now down thine ebbing tide The unlaboured boat falls rapidly along; The solitary helms-man sits to guide

And sings an idle song.

Now o'er the rocks, that lay

So silent late, the shallow current roars;
Fast flow thy waters on their sea-ward way
Thro' wider-spreading shores.