Imitation of a Song

Oak, that stately and alone
On the war-worn mound hast grown,
The blood of man thy sapling fed,
And dyed thy tender root in red;
Woe to the feast where foes combine,
Woe to the strife of words and wine!

Oak, thou hast sprung for many a year
'Mid whisp'ring rye-grass tall and sear,
The coarse rank herb, which seems to show
That bones unblessed are laid below;
Woe to the sword that hates its sheath,
Woe to th' unholy trade of death!

Oak', from the mountain's airy brow
Thou view'st the subject woods below,
And merchants hail the well-known tree,
Returning o'er the Severn sea.
Woe, woe to him whose birth is high,
For peril waits on royalty!

Now storms have bent thee to the ground,
And envious ivy clips thee round;
And shepherd hinds in wanton play
Have stripped thy needful bark away.
Woe to the man whose foes are strong,
Thrice woe to him who lives too long!