CHAP. CV.

CORYLA'CETE. QUE'RCUS,

1785

So many British poets have celebrated the oak; and its beauty, dignity, andstrength have afforded so many fine similes; that we are compelled to make aselection, and shall first give extracts from three of our oldest and mostpopular poets; viz. Chaucer, Spencer, and Shakspeare.

** And to a pleasant grove I ’gan to passe,

Long er the bright sunne uprise was ;

In which were okes great, straight as aline,

Under the which the grasse, so fresh of hew,

Was newly sprong, and an eight foot, or nine,

Every tree well fro his fellow grew,

With branches brode, laden with leves new,

That sprongen out agen the sunne shine ;

Some very red, and some a glad bright green.” Chaucer.

“ There grew an aged tree on the green ;

A goodly oak some time had it been,

With arms full strong, and largely display’d,

But of their leaves they were disarray’d:

His body big, and mightily pright,

Thoroughly rooted, and of wond’rous height:

Whilome had been the king of the field,

And mochel masts to the husband did yield,

And with his nuts larded many swine;

But now the grey moss marr’d his rine;

His bared boughs were beaten with storms,

His top was bald, and wasted with worms.

For it had been an ancient tree,

Sacred with many a mystery.” Spenser’s Shepherd's Calendar.

“ Under an oak, whose antique root peeps outUpon the brook that brawls along this wood;

Whose boughs were moss’d with age,

And high top bald with dry antiquity.” Shakspeare.

To these we add extracts, relating to trees we have already described, fromCowper’s Yardley Chase , Mundy’s Need-wood Forest, and Carrington’s Dart-moor. For the Yardley Oak, see p. 1764.

*' Thou wert a bauble once, a cup and ball,

Which babes might play with ; and the thievish jaySeeking her food, with ease might have purloin’dThe auburn nut that held thee, swallowing downThy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,

And all thy embryo vastness, at a gulp.

Time made thee what thou wert — king of the woods!

And time hath made thee what thou art — a caveFor owls to roost in! Once thy spreading boughsO’erhung the champaign, and the numerous flockThat grazed it stood beneath that ample copeUncrowded, yet safe-shelter’d from the storm.

No flock frequents thee now : thou hast outlivedThy popularity, and art become(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thingForgotten, as the foliage of thy youth!

Embowell’d now, and of thy ancient selfPossessing nought but the scooped rind, that seemsA huge throat calling to the clouds for drink,

Which it would give in rivulets to thy roots :

Thou temptest none, but rather much forbid’stThe feller’s toil, which thou couldst ill requite.

Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock:

A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs,

Which, crook’d into a thousand whimsies, claspThe stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.

Thine arms have left thee—winds have rent them off

Long since; and rovers of the forest wild

With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some have leftA splinter’d stump, bleach’d to a snowy white;

And some, memorial none where once they grew.

Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forthProof not contemptible of what she can,

Even where death predominates. The springFinds thee not less alive to her sweet form,

Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood,

So much thy juniors, who their birth received

Half a millennium since the date of thine.” Cowper s laraley Chase.