Oh, ocean wave and flying sail Shall never waft us to its shore! But if some reckless cyclone gale Should drop Bermuda at our door, 'Twould warm our February sky And bring the time of roses nigh!
I seem to see the old tree stand, Its sturdy, giant form A spectacle remembered, and A pilgrim-shrine for all the land Before it met the storm.
Unnumbered gales the tree defied; It towered like a king Above his courtiers, reaching wide, And sheltering scions at its side As with protecting wing.
Revered as one among the trees To mark the seasons born, To watchful aborigines It told by leafy indices The time of planting corn.
The landmark of the past is gone, Its site is overgrown; A mansion overlooks the lawn Where history is traced upon A parapet of stone.
Shall e'er Connecticut forget What unto it we owe-- How Wadsworth coped with Andros' threat, And tyranny, in council met, Outwitted years ago?
Aye, but it rouses loyal spunk To think of that old tree! Its stately stem, its spacious trunk By Nature robbed of pith and punk To guard our liberty.
But of the oak long-perished, why Is earth forever full? For, like the loaf and fish supply, Its stock of fiber, tough and dry, Seems inexhaustible.
Rare souvenirs the stranger sees-- Who never sees a joke-- And innocently dreams that these, From knotty, gnarly, scraggy trees, Were once the Charter Oak!
Yes, it is drawing nigh-- The time of blossoming; The waiting heart beats stronger With every breath of Spring, The days are growing longer; While happy hours go by As if on zephyr wing.
A wealth of mellow light Reflected from the skies The hill and vale is flooding; Still in their leafless guise The Jacqueminots are budding, Creating new delight By promise of surprise.
The air is redolent As ocean breezes are From spicy islands blowing, Or groves of Malabar Where sandal-wood is growing; Or sweet, diffusive scent, From fragrant attar-jar.
Just so is loveliness Renewed from year to year; And thus emotions tender, Born of the atmosphere, Of bloom, and vernal splendor That words cannot express, Make Spring forever dear.
Can mortal man behold So beautiful a scene, Without the innate feeling That thus, like dying sheen The sunset hues revealing, Glints pure, celestial gold On fields of living green?