Hard by an ancient mansion stood an oak;
For centuries,‘ twas said, it had been there:
The old towers crumbled‘ neath decay's slow stroke,
While, hall by hall, upgrew a palace fair;
Lives and momentous eras waxed and waned,
Old barons died, and barons young and gay
Ruled in their stead, and still the oak remained,
And each new spring seemed older not a day.
The vesture of the spirit of mankind,—
Forms and beliefs, like meteors, rise and set;
The spirit too doth change; but o'er the mind
This old Evangel holds young lordship yet;
And here among Canadian snows we bring
Each Christmastide our tribute to the King.