An oak tree falling on the mead,
By woodman's stroke laid low,
Saw, as a handle to the axe
Which wrought the fatal blow,
A bough that once upon his breast
Drew nurture from his heart,
And as a tender, helpless shoot,
Grew of his life a part.
"Woe! woe!" he sighed, as on the earth
He drew expiring breath:
"That what I nurtured at its birth
"Should rend my heart in death!"