78 
ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
TO A PINE TREE. 
F AR up on Katahdin thou towerest, 
Purple-blue with the distance and vast; 
Like a cloud o’er the lowlands thou lowerest, 
That hangs poised on a lull in the blast, 
To its fall leaning awful. 
In the storm, like a prophet o’er maddened, 
Thou singest and tossest thy branches ; 
Thy heart with the terror is gladdened, 
Thou forebodest the dread avalanches, 
When whole mountains swoop valeward. 
In the calm thou o’er stretchest the valleys 
With thine arms, as if blessings imploring, 
Like an old King led forth from his palace, 
When his people to battle are pouring 
From the city beneath him. 
Spite of winter, thou keep’st thy green glory, 
Lusty father of Titans past number ! 
The snow-flakes alone make thee hoary, 
Nestling close to thy branches in slumber, 
And the mantling with silence. 
Thou alone know'st the splendor of winter, 
Mid thy snow-silvered, hushed precipices, 
Hearing crags of green ice groan and splinter, 
AndThen plunge down the muffled abysses 
In the quiet of midnight. 
Thou alone know’st the glory of summer, 
Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest, 
On thy subjects that send a proud murmur 
Up to thee, to their sachem, who towerest 
From thy bleak throne to heaven. 
James Russell Lowell. 
The violet in her greenwood bower, 
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, 
May boast itself the fairest flower 
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. 
Sir Walter Scott. 
