Roman rhymes : being Winter Work for a Summer Fair Newport, R. I., August 27, 1869 |
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SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT'S PINE. |
 | Roman rhymes : being Winter Work for a Summer Fair |  |
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SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT'S PINE.
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[All day long, from my eyrie on the Corso, that lone pine on Mount Mario was the object to which I turned with the greatest interest. One day, I heard it had a history, besides its natural history. Years ago, there had stood a group of them on that hill,—special favorites of Sir George. Once, on returning to Rome from an absence in England, he found that the proprietor had cut down all but one, and that the workmen were preparing to fell that. He jumped into his carriage, drove over, bought and saved that one. I have imagined his feelings, in the following parody of our “Woodman, spare that tree!”]
Vandal, spare that Pine!
Touch not a single bough!
This gold shall make it mine:
No steel shall harm it now.
By Nature's hand 'twas set,
To top this beauteous hill;
That hand preserves it yet,
And shall preserve it still!
Touch not a single bough!
This gold shall make it mine:
No steel shall harm it now.
By Nature's hand 'twas set,
To top this beauteous hill;
That hand preserves it yet,
And shall preserve it still!
That Pine hath been to me
For years a steadfast friend;
And shall I tamely see
Thy axe its glories end?
Bright Day would spend his gold
To save that brave old tree!
Its price cannot be told:
Rash leveller, let it be.
For years a steadfast friend;
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Thy axe its glories end?
Bright Day would spend his gold
To save that brave old tree!
Its price cannot be told:
Rash leveller, let it be.
That old familiar tree,
What rapture of delight
The vision woke in me,
At morning and at night!
Reflecting morn's fresh beam,
With mingled love and awe,
And tinged with evening's gleam,
Its dusky form I saw.
What rapture of delight
The vision woke in me,
At morning and at night!
Reflecting morn's fresh beam,
With mingled love and awe,
And tinged with evening's gleam,
Its dusky form I saw.
In majesty and grace
How long that tree hath stood,
With trees of noble race,
Old monarchs of the wood!
Its brethren all are low,
Felled by thy cruel hand!
Spare, madman, this last blow,
And let the old Pine stand!
How long that tree hath stood,
With trees of noble race,
Old monarchs of the wood!
Its brethren all are low,
Felled by thy cruel hand!
Spare, madman, this last blow,
And let the old Pine stand!
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That glorious old stone-pine,
Last gem in Mario's crown,
A king by right divine,
And wouldst thou hack it down?
Dearer than Peter's dome
To evening's golden sky,
Plume on the brow of Rome,
It must not, shall not die!
Last gem in Mario's crown,
A king by right divine,
And wouldst thou hack it down?
Dearer than Peter's dome
To evening's golden sky,
Plume on the brow of Rome,
It must not, shall not die!
| Roman rhymes : being Winter Work for a Summer Fair | |