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