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9.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Since early affection and love is o'ercast: Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot, Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.
10.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; [iv]
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet-- The present--which seals our eternal Adieu.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1:
'Adieu to the Muse'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'When cold is the form'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
--'whom I lived but to love'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Since we never can meet'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. [1]
1.
Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.
2.
Such, such was my hope, when in Infancy's years, On the land of my Fathers I rear'd thee with pride; They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,-- Thy decay, not the _weeds_ that surround thee can hide.
3.
I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my Sire; Till Manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.
4.
Oh! hardy thou wert--even now little care Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal: But thou wert not fated affection to share-- For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel?
5.
Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done.
6.
Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and a.s.sist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are Life's early seeds, And still may thy branches their beauty display.
7.
Oh! yet, if Maturity's years may be thine, Though _I_ shall lie low in the cavern of Death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may s.h.i.+ne, [i]
Uninjured by Time, or the rude Winter's breath.
8.
For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy Lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, The Chief who survives may recline in thy shade.
