Thou giant Pine of patriarchal years, O’er the rock helm of the stern mountain bending, As watching yon glad river, which appears Like a bright dream through bowers of beauty wending. Mocking thy bleak and solitary pride With warm and flowery scenes, and soft wings gleaming, Bright fountains laughing on the mountain’s side, ’Neath bow’rs of blossom’d vines, profusely streaming. And sigh’st thou o’er those visions of delight, As my lone bosom o’er the glowing treasures Which live in fancy’s realm before my sight, Mocking my spirit with ideal pleasures? Or art thou holding converse with the wind, Waving majestic assent to some story Of mournful interest, how thy stately kind Have perish’d from the places of their glory? Or are ye talking of the noble race Stately as thou, with the wind’s freedom roaming; Who o’er these mountains once pursued the chace, Or stem’d the river at its spring tide foaming? Oh knew I all the legends of the past! With life and love, and death and sorrow teeming, On which thou hast looked down, since first the blast Play’d with thy plumes, in morning sunlight gleaming. Thou’st seen the free born hunters of the wild, Chasing the fleet deer in his antler’d glory; Or with his chosen maid, rich nature’s child, Breathing in whispers love’s ungarnish’d story. And thou hast seen him on the mountain path, Victor and vanquish’d, fleeing and pursuing, Conquer’d and writhing with vindictive wrath, Or agonising o’er his nation’s ruin. While the fierce conqueror gaz’d with gloating eye On mangled forms, in mortal anguish lying; Or where the wigwam’s flame was wreathing high, Showing its inmates, wild with terror flying. Seemed he not king-like, with his plumy crown, And like a tiger, streak’d with hideous painting! With hand that sought no treasure but renown, And heart that knew no fear, and felt no fainting. Full many a time, perchance beneath thy shade, The youthful sachem stood with pride surveying His wide domains, and the soft valley’s shade, Where through the bowers his dark-eyed love was straying. Yet sometimes still there comes a wasted form, With locks like thine, by many winters faded; Well has he brav’d the battle, and the storm, The sachem whom thy youthful branches shaded. Ye are a noble pair, ye stand the last, Each of a noble race; and ye are staying Magnificent mementoes of the past, Glorious and wonderful in your decaying. And thou dost toss thy branches to the wind, And sigh sad dirges of thy perished glory; And he is brooding, with a saddened mind, Over a perish’d nation’s wrongful story. A few more years, and the wild eagle’s wing Shall seek his long-lov’d rest with mournful screaming; A few more years, and no dark form shall cling To this stern height of perish’d glory dreaming. And who will mourn when thou art lying low,