The Fallen Oak, A Vision Poem by John Wilson

Scene: A Wood, near Keswick, belonging to Greenwich Hospital.

Beneath the shadow of an ancient oak,
Dreaming I lay, far 'mid a solemn wood,
When a noise like thunder stirred 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,
Crushed the tall hazels in its ample shade.
Methought, the vanquished monarch as he died
Uttered a groan: while loud and taunting cheers
The woodmen raised o'er him whose stubborn pride
Had braved the seasons for an hundred years.
It seemed a savage shout, a senseless scorn,
Nor long prevailed amid the awful gloom;
Sad looked 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 blessèd sun,
As through the new formed void he poured his rays.
Then rose a dream before my sleeping soul!
A wood-nymph tearing her dishevelled hair,
And wailing loud, from a long vista stole,
And eyed the ruin with a fixed despair.
The velvet moss, that bathed 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 touched 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 veiled my face.
Smiling she stood beside the prostrate oak,
While a stern pleasure swelled 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!'