The Oak of Chatsworth, PLANTED BY HER MAJESTY WHEN PRINCESS VICTORIA. |
  Wave on, ye old memorial trees,
In the wintry wind and the summer breeze:
Beacons ye are of days gone by,
Of grief and crime, of the tear and sigh.
Ah! may they never come again,
In hut or hall, on hill or plain!
But a young tree is growing,
Where clear streams are flowing;
Its roots are deep in the mother earth,
In the parent soil that gave it birth,
And its noble boughs are waving high,
Meeting the breeze or the summer wind’s sigh;
While quivering lights and shadows play
On the flowery sod beneath;
And flocks lie down in the heat of day,
’Mid the fragrant thyme and heath.
Old trees have fallen down,
From the sites where they stood of yore,
And now in tower or town
Their names are heard no more.
When they stood in their days of pride,
The Saxon wore his crown,
And oft through the forest wide
The Norman wound his horn;
But thou in thy beauty’s sheen,
Young tree, art rising high,
Thy waving boughs are seen,
Against the clear blue sky.
No dibbling foot of sportive fawn,
In silent glen or glade,
No squirrel bounding o’er the lawn
Thy tender cradle made:
But the poet’s eye back glancing,
Can sing of thy natal day,
When the streamlets in light seem’d dancing,
And the woods did their homage pay.
A maiden placed thee, forest tree,
Where thou art standing now,
No care depress’d her thoughts of glee,
No crown was on her brow;
But she stood, a lov’d and loving one,
By her noble mother’s side,
And while that gentle deed was done,
Hearts turn’d to her with pride.
The old memorial trees,
That rise on rock or glen,
Dark years of human sorrow
Are chronicled on them;
But Chatsworth’s young oak springing,
May spread her branches fair,
When nought of sin or sadness
Shall vex the earth or air.
The crowns which God hath given,
Shall press not then as now;
No sceptre shall be riven,
No care shall cloud the brow.
Victoria! shielded by His power,
Be thine to triumph in that hour,
Queen of the sea-girt isle! Not then,
As now, the Queen of suffering men,
But reigning still, beloved and glorious,
O’er sin, and grief, and death victorious. |
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