7G THE PINE-TREE, OR 



To our frosts the tribute bringing 



Of eternal heats, 

 In our lap of winter flinging 



Tropic fruits and sweets. 



Cheerly on the ax of labor 



Let the sunbeam dance, 

 Better than the flash of saber 



Or the gleam of lance ! 

 Strike ! With every blow is given 



Freer sun and sky, 

 And the long-hid earth to heaven 



Looks with wond'ring eye. 



Loud behind us grow the murmurs 



Of the age to come — 

 Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers 



Bearing harvest home ! 

 Here her virgin lap with treasures 



Shall the gi-een earth fill — 

 Waving wheat and golden maize-ears 



Crown each beecheu hill. 



Keep who will the city's alleys, 



Take the smooth-shorn plain. 

 Give to us the cedarn valleys, 



Rocks and hills of Maine ! 

 In our North-land, wild and woody, 



Let us still have part — 

 Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, 



Hold us to thy heart ! 



Oh, our free hearts beat the warmer 



For thy breath of snow, 

 And our tread is all the firmer 



For thy rocks below. 

 Freedom, hand in hand with labor, 



Walketh strong and brave ; 

 On the forehead of his neighbor 



No man writeth Slave ! 



