Skip to content
1785–1854

THE FALLEN OAK, A VISION.

John Wilson

Beneath the shadow of an ancient oak, Dreaming I lay, far‘ mid a solemn wood, When a noise like thunder stirr'd the solitude, And from that trance I suddenly awoke!

A noble tree came crashing to the ground, Through the dark forest opening out a glade; While all its hundred branches stretching round, Crush'd the tall hazles in its ample shade.

Methought, the vanquish'd monarch as he died Utter'd a groan: while loud and taunting chears The woodmen raised o'er him whose stubborn pride Had braved the seasons for an hundred years.

It seem'd a savage shout, a senseless scorn, Nor long prevail'd amid the awful gloom; Sad look'd the forest of her glory shorn, Reverend with age, yet bright in vigour's bloom,

Slain in his hour of strength, a giant in his tomb. I closed mine eyes, nor could I brook to gaze On the wild havoc in one moment done; Hateful to me shone forth the blessed sun,

As through the new form'd void he pour'd his rays. Then rose a dream before my sleeping soul! A wood-nymph tearing her dishevell'd hair, And wailing loud, from a long vista stole,

And eyed the ruin with a fixed despair. The velvet moss, that bath'd its roots in green, For many a happy day had been her seat; Than valley wide more dear this secret scene;

— She asked no music but the rustling sweet Of the rejoicing leaves; now, all is gone, That touch'd the Dryad's heart with pure delight. Soon shall the axe destroy her fallen throne,

Its leaves of gold, its bark so glossy bright — — But now she hastes away,— death-sickening at the sight! A nobler shape supplied the Dryad's place; Soon as I saw the spirit in her eye,

I knew the mountain-goddess, Liberty, And in adoring reverence veil'd my face. Smiling she stood beside the prostrate oak, While a stern pleasure swell'd her lofty breast,

And thus, methought, in thrilling accents spoke — “Not long, my darling Tree! must be thy rest! Glorious thou wert, when towering through the skies In winter-storms, or summer's balmy breath;

And thou, my Tree! shalt gloriously arise, In life majestic, terrible in death! For thou shalt float above the roaring wave, Where flags, denouncing battle, stream afar;—

Thou wert, from birth, devoted to the brave, And thou shalt sail on like a blazing star, Bearing victorious NELSON through the storms of war!”

Cookies on Poetry Cove

We use cookies to remember your language preference and — only with your consent — to learn how Poetry Cove is used. You can change your mind any time.
THE FALLEN OAK, A VISION. · John Wilson · Poetry Cove