| |
| THY name of old was great: | |
| What though sour critics teach | |
| “The beech by the Scæan gate | |
| Was not indeed a beech,” | |
| That sweet Theocritus | 5 |
| The ilex loved, not thee?— | |
| These are made glorious | |
| Through thy name, glorious tree. | |
| |
| And sure ’t was ’neath thy shade | |
| Tityrus oft did use | 10 |
| (The while his oxen strayed) | |
| To meditate the Muse. | |
| To thee ’t was Corydon | |
| (Sad shepherd) did lament | |
| Vain hopes, and violets wan | 15 |
| To fair Alexis sent. | |
| |
| Our singers loved thee, too: | |
| In Chaucer’s liquid verse | |
| Are set thy praises due | |
| The ages but rehearse; | 20 |
| Though later poets bring | |
| Their homage still, and I | |
| The least of those who sing | |
| Thy name would magnify. | |
| |
| For long ago my sires, | 25 |
| Ere Hengist crossed the sea | |
| To map our English shires, | |
| Gave up their heart to thee, | |
| And vowed if thou wouldst keep | |
| Their lives from fire and foe, | 30 |
| Thou too shouldst never weep | |
| The axe’s deadly blow. | |
| |
| Thou hast my heart to-day: | |
| Whether in June I sit | |
| And watch the leaves at play, | 35 |
| The flickering shadows flit; | |
| Or whether, when leaves fall | |
| And red the autumn mould, | |
| I pace the woodland hall | |
| Thy stately trunks uphold. | 40 |
| |
| Thou hast my heart, and here | |
| In scattered fruit I see | |
| An emblem true and clear | |
| Of what my heart must be:— | |
| Hard sheath and scanty fare, | 45 |
| Yet forced on every side | |
| To break apart and share | |
| Small gifts it fain would hide. | |
| |
