Apostrophe to an Old Tree

WHERE thy broad branches brave the bitter North,Like rugged, indigent, unheeded, worth,Lo! Vegetation's guardian hands embossEach giant limb with fronds of studded moss,Clothing the bark with many a fringed foldBegemm'd with scarlet shields and cups of gold,Which, to the wildest winds their webs oppose,And mock the arrowy sleet, or weltering snows.—But to the warmer West the Woodbine fairWith tassels that perfumed the Summer air,

The mantling Clematis, whose feathery bowersWaved in festoons with Nightshade's purple flowers,The silver weed, whose corded fillets woveRound thy pale rind, even as deceitful loveOf mercenary beauty would engageThe dotard fondness of decrepit age;All these, that during Summer's halcyon daysWith their green canopies conceal'd thy sprays,Are gone for ever; or disfigured, trailTheir sallow relics in the Autumnal gale;Or o'er thy roots, in faded fragments tost,But tell of happier hours, and sweetness lost!—Thus in Fate's trying hour, when furious stormsStrip social life of Pleasure's fragile forms,

And awful Justice, as his rightful preyTears Luxury's silk, and jewel'd robe, away,While reads Adversity her lesson stern,And Fortune's minions tremble as they learn;The crouds around her gilded car that hung,Bent the lithe knee, and troul'd the honey'd tongue,Desponding fall, or fly in pale despair;And Scorn alone remembers that they were.Not so Integrity; unchanged he livesIn the rude armour conscious Honor gives,And dares with hardy front the troubled sky,In Honesty's uninjured panoply.Ne'er on Prosperity's enfeebling bedOr rosy pillows, he reposed his head,

But given to useful arts, his ardent mindHas sought the general welfare of mankind;To mitigate their ills his greatest bliss,While studying them, has taught him what he is;He, when the human tempest rages worst,And the earth shudders as the thunders burst,Firm, as thy northern branch, is rooted fast,And if he can't avert, endures the blast.