Oak.... Nobility.

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.

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.