O thou once highly valued piece of wood,
By him who best that value understood;
Whose purse so often thou didst help to fill,—
Whom bed and board,
Thou didst afford,
Attended by thy train of sharpen'd steel!
True to thy task throughout the changing year,
Thy fellowship was to thy master dear:—
Whether at work, or o'er his shoulder slung,
Or near his side,
Thou wast his pride,
While with his friend he cheerful sat and sung!
Without a murmur at stern winter's frown,
Or summer's heat, in country or in town,
The stone hath yielded to thy sturdy blow:—
Thy day is gone,
Thy task is done,
And thou art own'd by thy last master now!
While careless I thy destiny survey,
And see thee down to ashes waste away;
Thy crackling whisper seems to shew to me,
The frailty clear,
Of all things here,
To earth allied, and man's mortality!
Since first on thee the tender bud appear'd,
Or on thy branch the birds the woodlands cheer'd,
What strange vicissitudes have roll'd between;
Since thou wast nurs'd,
With care at first,
Or in the forest flourish'd gay and green!
There was a time when high thy top did wave,
In mystic triumph o'er the woodman's grave,
Whose stroke had ceas'd, worn out by course of years;
Where undismay'd
The breezes play'd,
Whose peaceful shade remembrance only bears!
Ah! thou wilt never, never bud again,
Thy ashes lost in field, or flood, or lane;
No more the sun will on thy substance shine:
It would, at last, I fear,
Be well with many here,
If life's last spark might be compared with thine!