74 THE PINE-TREE, OR 



Through the tall and naked timber, 



Column-like and old, 

 Gleam the sunsets of November 



With their skies of gold. 



O'er us, to the South-land heading, 



Screams the gray wild goose ; 

 On the night-frost sounds the treading 



Of the stately moose. 

 Fast the streams with ice are closing, 



Colder grows the sky, 

 Soon, on lake and river frozen, 



Shall our log-piles lie. 



When, with sounds of smother'd thunder, 



On some night of rain, 

 Lake and river break asunder 



Winter's vveaken'd chain, 

 Down the wild March-flood shall bear them 



To the saw-mill's wheel, 

 Or, where Steam, the slave, shall tear them 



With his teeth of steel. 



Be it starlight, be it moonlight 



In these vales below, 

 When the earliest beams of sunlight 



Streaks the mountain's snow, 

 Crisps the hoar-frost keen and early 



To our hurrying feet, 

 And the forest echoes clearly 



All our blows repeat. 



When the crystal Ambijejis 



Stretches broad and clear, 

 And Millnoket's pine-black ridges 



Hide the browsing deer; 

 Where, through lakes and wide morasses, 



Or through rocky walls, 

 Swift and strong Penobscot passes, 



White with foamy falls. 



