Let India boast its spicy trees,

Whose fruit and gorgeous bloom

Give to each faint and languid breeze

Its rich and rare perfume.

Let Portugal and haughty Spain

Display their orange groves;

And France exult her vines to train

Around her trim alcoves.

Let Norway vaunt its hardy pine,

And Araby its palm,

Libanus for its cedars shine,

And Gilead for its balm.

Old England has a tree as strong,

As stately as them all,

As worthy of a minstrel's song

In cottage, or in hall.

’Tis not the yew-tree, though it lends

Its greenness to the grave;

Nor willow, though it fondly bends

Its branches o’er the wave:

Nor birch, although its slender tress

Be beautifully fair,

As graceful in its loveliness

As maiden's flowing hair.

’Tis not the poplar, though its height

May from afar be seen;

Nor beech, although its boughs be dight

With leaves of glossy green.

All these are fair, but they may fling

Their shade unsung by me;

My favourite, and the forest's king,

The British Oak shall be!

Its stem though rough is stout and sound,

Its giant branches throw

Their arms in shady blessings round

O’er man and beast below;

Its leaf, though late in spring it shares

The zephyr's gentle sigh,

As late and long in Autumn wears

A deeper, richer dye.

Type of an honest English heart,

It opes not at a breath,

But having opened, plays its part,

Until it sinks in death:

Not early won by gleam of sun

Its beauties to unfold;

One of the last in skies o’ercast

To lose its faithful hold.

Its acorns, graceful to the sight,

Are toys to childhood dear;

Its misletoe, with berries white,

Adds mirth to Christmas cheer.

And when we reach life's closing stage,

Worn out with care or ill,

For childhood, youth, or hoary age,

Its arms are open still.

But prouder yet its glories shine,

When, in a nobler form,

It floats upon the heaving brine,

And braves the bursting storm.

Or when, to aid the work of love,

To some benighted clime