 | Later Lays and Lyrics |  |
THE PINE.
I.
While mossy old pines sang a lullaby wild,I couched on the grass, when an innocent child,
And fancied that angels were hovering round;
No instrument fashioned by frail mortal hand
Could rouse in my bosom a feeling so grand
As that magical, soft and mysterious sound.
II.
In keeping with Freedom's proud throne on the hills,How the roar of a storm-troubled pine forest thrills—
The heart of the mountaineer mantled in cloud;
It sends to the valleys a voice of dismay,
And sounds like the quick march of hosts to the fray,
While drums beat the charge and the trumpet is loud.
III.
Though soft are the tones that the wild winds evokeFrom the glossy-leaved beech or centennial oak,
The pines give a sweeter response to their call;
And often I think, when the branches are stirred,
Of rich, organ peals in some old minster heard,
While ghosts seem to start from the echoing wall.
IV.
When winter is coating the hillside with snow,And dropping a shroud on the meadows below,
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Ice covers its trunk with a glittering mail,
And it welcomes the rush of the pitiless gale,
Its green arms uptossing in frantic delight.
V.
Meet place for the bird of our banner to rest,Or build for his royal descendant a nest,
Is the tall, misty cone of some towering pine;
Its branches give tongue and proclaim him a king
When sunward, in circles, he mounts on the wing,
To gaze on the earth like a vision divine.
VI.
Oh! grand is the dash of the surf on the shore,And wild the mad torrent's tumultuous roar,
While cliffs overhanging with spray-drops are wet;
But the sigh of the wind in a forest of pines,
Like troops on the hill-summits, marshalled in lines,
Is a sound that a poet can never forget.
VII.
Now it swells on the ear, with a billowy roll;Anon breathes in whispers of love to the soul—
For spirits are touching the emerald keys:
Talk not of the magic of lute or of lyre,
Poetic emotion they cannot inspire
Like melody woke in the pines by the breeze.
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