XXVIII

He who has seen a great oak dry and dead,
Bearing some trophy as an ornament,
Whose roots from earth are almost rent,
Though to the heavens it still lifts its head;

More than half-bowed towards its final bed,
Showing its naked boughs and fibres bent,
While, leafless now, its heavy crown is leant
Support by a gnarled trunk, its sap long bled;

And though at the first strong wind it must fall,
And many young oaks are rooted within call,
Alone among the devout populace is revered:

Who such an oak has seen, let him consider,
That, among cities which have flourished here,
This old honoured dust was the most honoured.