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 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
353
THE ROYAL PINE.
Three cheers for the Pine, the Royal Pine,
Throned high on the hill's green brow;
While ranks of trees, in the rushing breeze,
Below like vassals bow;
When the hue of wine, at day's decline
Bepaints the solemn west,
A golden crown on his brow falls down,
Though the vale in gloom is drest.
Throned high on the hill's green brow;
While ranks of trees, in the rushing breeze,
Below like vassals bow;
When the hue of wine, at day's decline
Bepaints the solemn west,
A golden crown on his brow falls down,
Though the vale in gloom is drest.
With a heated brow, beneath his bough
The red man oft hath lain,
Worn out with toil, while his antler'd spoil
On the velvet moss lay slain;
And beneath his shade the Seneca maid
Hath warbled her wood-land lay,
While braiding flowers, and counting the hours
That kept her chief away.
The red man oft hath lain,
Worn out with toil, while his antler'd spoil
On the velvet moss lay slain;
And beneath his shade the Seneca maid
Hath warbled her wood-land lay,
While braiding flowers, and counting the hours
That kept her chief away.
When winter reigns, and the river chains
With fetters chill and white,
In the cold thin air, with branches bare,
The tall oak pains the sight;
But, on the hill thy banner still
Flings out defiance high,
Though no tint of green in the glen is seen,
And the blast comes growling by.
With fetters chill and white,
In the cold thin air, with branches bare,
The tall oak pains the sight;
But, on the hill thy banner still
Flings out defiance high,
Though no tint of green in the glen is seen,
And the blast comes growling by.
Long life to the Pine, the voiceful Pine,
Who mourneth for the past,
When the morning breeze sweeps his emerald keys,
Or the fitful midnight blast;
My thoughts, when I hear, in moonlight clear,
His surge-like anthem rise,
Are of seers of eld who, on hill-tops, held
Communion with the skies.
Who mourneth for the past,
When the morning breeze sweeps his emerald keys,
Or the fitful midnight blast;
354
His surge-like anthem rise,
Are of seers of eld who, on hill-tops, held
Communion with the skies.
Three cheers for the Pine, the Royal Pine!
Though lord of a region grim,
The tempest loud, and the eagle proud
Are friends who talk with him.
May he lift his head, by well-springs fed,
In sunshine and in shower,
And his plumage green by the bard be seen
While the gray old hills up-tower.
Though lord of a region grim,
The tempest loud, and the eagle proud
Are friends who talk with him.
May he lift his head, by well-springs fed,
In sunshine and in shower,
And his plumage green by the bard be seen
While the gray old hills up-tower.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |