Beneath his feet a little village
Lay, like a field-lark in her nest,
Amid the treasures of its tillage,
The maize in golden colors dressed.
Years passed; and when again there came
A stranger to that peaceful spot,
Gone was the village and its name,
Save by a few gray-heads, forgot.

But soon beneath the Oak, another,
And sturdier village took its place;
One that the gentle Virgin mother
Has kept from ruin by her grace.
She saved it from the dusky foes
Who thirsted for its heroes' blood,
And when December waters rose
About its walls she stilled the flood.

What noble deeds and cruel, stranger
Than aught in fiction ere befell,
What weary years of war and danger
That village knew, the Oak might tell.
Perchance, brave Dollard sat of yore
Beneath its very shade, and planned
A deed should make for evermore
His name a trumpet in the land.

Perchance, beneath its gloomy shadows
De Vaudreuil sat that bitter day
When round about him, in the meadows