Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud br With sounds of unintelligible speech, br Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach, br Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd; br With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, br Thou speakest a different dialect to each; br To me a language that no man can teach, br Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud. br For underneath thy shade, in days remote, br Seated like Abraham at eventide br Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown br Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote br His Bible in a language that hath died br And is forgotten, save by thee alone.