Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, Or quaff the waters of the stream, Why hither come on vagrant wing?-- Does Bacchus tempting seem-- Did he, for you, this glass prepare?-- Will I admit you to a share? Did storms harass or foes perplex, Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay-- Did wars distress, or labours vex, Or did you miss your way?-- A better seat you could not take Than on the margin of this lake. Welcome!--I hail you to my glass: All welcome, here, you find; Here, let the cloud of trouble pass, Here, be all care resigned.-- This fluid never fails to please, And drown the griefs of men or bees. What forced you here, we cannot know, And you will scarcely tell-- But cheery we would have you go And bid a glad farewell: On lighter wings we bid you fly, Your dart will now all foes defy. Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink, And in this ocean die; Here bigger bees than you might sink, Even bees full six feet high. Like Pharoah, then, you would be said To perish in a sea of red. Do as you please, your will is mine; Enjoy it without fear-- And your grave will be this glass of wine, Your epitaph--a tear-- Go, take your seat in Charon's boat, We'll tell the hive, you died afloat. [196] From the edition of 1809. ON THE FALL OF AN ANCIENT OAK TREE[197] While onward moves each circling year Thy mandates, Nature, all obey, As with this moving, changeful sphere The seasons change and never stay; Old Oak, I to your place return, Where late you stood, and viewing mourn, For the great loss my heart sustained When you declined, long will I sigh, That hour when you no more remained To cheer the summer, passing by; No longer blessed my eager view, But like some dying friend withdrew. Though frequent, by that nipping frost, The blast which cold November sends, I saw your leafy honours lost; Hope, for such losses, made amends: The spring again beheld them grow, And we were pleased, and so was you. Since I your fatal fall survive, Remembrance long shall hold you dear, And bid some young successor live; By sad Amyntor planted here; Its buds to swell, its leaves to spread, And shade the place when he is dead. A prince among your towering race, What more your vanished form endears Is that your presence in this place Had been at least one hundred years; And men that long in dust have laid, When boys, beneath your shadow played. You had your time to feel the sun, To wanton in his cheering ray;-- That time is past, your race is run, And we have nothing more to say, Than, may your oaken spirit go Among Elysian oaks below. [197] From the edition of 1809. STANZAS ON THE DECEASE OF THOMAS PAINE Who died at New-York, on the 8th of June, 1809[198] Princes and kings decay and die And, instant, rise again: But this is not the case, trust me, With men like Thomas Paine.