The Charter-Oak, at Hartford

Glorious Patriarch of the West!Often have mine ears been blestWith some tale from traveller wight,Of thy majesty and might,Rearing high, on column proud,Massy verdure toward the cloud,While thy giant branches throwCoolness o'er the vales below.Humbler rank, indeed, is mine,Yet I boast a kindred line,And though Nature spared to setOn my head thy coronet,Still, from history's scroll I claimSomewhat of an honored name;So, I venture, kingly tree,Thus to bow myself to thee.Once there came, in days of yore,A minion from the mother shore,

With men at arms, and flashing eyeOf pre-determined tyranny,High words he spake, and stretched his handYoung Freedom's charter to demand.But lo! it vanished from his sight,And sudden darkness fell like night,While baffled still, in wrath and pain,He, groping, sought the prize in vain;For a brave hand, in trust to me,Had given that germ of liberty,And like our relative of old,Who clasped his arms serenely boldAround the endangered prince, who fledThe scaffold where his father bled,I hid it, safe from storm and blast,Until the days of dread were past,And then my faithful breast restoredThe treasure to its rightful lord.

For this, do pilgrims seek my side,And artists sketch my varying pride,And far away o'er ocean's brine,An acorn or a leaf of mineI hear are stored as relics richIn antiquarian's classic niche.Now if I were but in my prime,Some hundred lustrums less of timeUpon my brow, perchance such charmOf flattery might have wrought me harm,

Made the young pulse too wildly beat,Or woke the warmth of self-conceit.But age, slow curdling through my veins,All touch of arrogance restrains.For pride, alas! and boastful trustAre not for trees, which root in dust,Nor men, who ere their noontide ray,Oft like our wind-swept leaves decay.Yet not unscathed, have centuries spedTheir course around my hoary head,My gouty limbs for ease I strain,And twist my gnarled roots in vain,And still beneath the wintry skyThese stricken branches quake and sigh,Which erst in manly vigor sentStout challenge to each element.

But lingering memories haunt my brain,And hover round the past, in vain,Of chiefs and tribes who here had sway,Then vanished like the mist away.Near river's marge, by verdure cheered,Their humble, bowery homes they reared,At night, their council-fires were red,At dawn, the greenwood chase they sped;—But now, the deer, that bounded high,Amid his forest canopy,The stag, that nobly stood at bay,The thicket where at noon he lay,

And they, whose flying arrow stirredAnd staid the fleetest of the herd,All, like the bubbles on the stream,Have mingled with oblivion's dream.A different race usurped my glade,Whose cheek the Saxon blood betrayed,And he, the master of this dome,Within whose gates I found my home,With stately step and bearing cold,The poor red-featured throng controlled,And their mad orgies hashed to fearThrough pealing trump whose echoes clearAt midnight full of terror came,With the Great Spirit's awful name.

Too soon those sires, sedate and grave,Recede on Time's unresting wave,And hospitality sincere,And virtues simple and severe,And deep respect for ancient swayMethinks, with them, have past away.That honesty, which scorned of oldThe traffic of unrighteous gold,Drank from the well its crystal pure,And left the silver cup secure,Seems now submerged, with struggles vain,In wild desire of sudden gain,Or lost in wealth's unhallowed pride,By patient toil unsanctified.

Change steals o'er all; the bark canoeNo longer cleaves the streamlet blue,Nor even the flying wheel retainsIts ancient prowess o'er the plains;The horse, with nerves of iron frame,Whose breath is smoke, whose food is flame,Surmounts the earth with fearful sweep,And strangely rules the cleaving deep,While they, who once, at sober pace,Reflecting rode, from place to place,Now, with rash speed and brains that swim,In reckless plans, resemble him.

But yet, I would not cloud my strain,Nor think the world is in its wane,For 't is the fault of age, they say,Its own decadence to betray,By ceaseless blame of things that are,So, of this frailty I'll beware,And keep my blessings full in sight,While in this land of peace and light,Where liberty and plenty dwell,And knowledge seeks the lowliest cell,No woodman's steel my heart invades,Nor heathen footsteps track my shades.Yet too expansive grows the lay,Forgive its egotism, I pray,And should'st thou in thy goodness deign,A line responsive to my strain,

Fain would I of their welfare hear,That group of noble souls, and dear,Who from their eastern birth-place prest,To choose a mansion in the west.Reluctant from our home and heart,We saw those stalwart forms depart,And if amid thy vallies green,Thou aught of them hast heard or seen,And will impart that lore to me,Right welcome shall thy missive be.

And now, may Spring, that decks the plains,With kindling fervor touch thy veins,And Summer smile with healthful skies,And Autumn pour her thousand dies,And many a year stern Winter spareThee in thy glory, fresh and fair,Thy gratitude to heaven to showBy deeds of love to those below,A mighty shade from noontide heat,When pilgrims halt, or strangers greet,Through woven leaves, a pleasant sound,When murmuring breezes sigh around,And many a nest for minstrel fairThat sing God's praise in upper air:So may'st thou blessing live, and blest,Monarch and Patriarch of the West.