Heart of Oak

Lean close and set thine ear against the bark;
Then tell me what faint, murmurous sounds are heard:
Hath not the oak stored up the song of bird,
Whisper of wind and rain-lisp? Ay, and hark!
The shadowy elves that fret the summer dark,
With clash of horny winglets swiftly whirred,
Hear'st thou not them, with myriad noises, blurred,
Yet well defined if one but shrewdly mark?
And thou,—when thy Familiar setteth ear
Unto thy bosom, doth he note the same
Sweet concord of harmonious sounds within?
Or is all hushed in hollow silence drear?
An 't be, pray Heaven to save thee from thy shame
Ere thy whole soul be slain by cankerous sin.