Not to the fury of the storm, though loud
Above the thunders boom,
Nor to the slanting wind, or lowering cloud
Would you succumb.

But when the storm was past, the earth sun-flashed,
You laid you down in pride;
And loud your death-song roared, and rolled, and crashed
Through field and woodland wide.

Above your fellows, watching night and day,
A landmark fair you stood;
A guide to wanderers on the miles-wide way
To Whiting Cove and Wood.

You seemed to beckon to the outer strife,
Bidding the striving cease,
And come and share with you the boon of life,
And have the strength of peace.

As you were first to frown, and feel the blast,
And face the driving rain,
So you were first, when it had hurried past,
To sing and smile again.

And as you stood in adoration rapt,
Swaying your sun-bright crown,
There came a tremor, and then something snapped,
And you went thundering down.

O grand old pine, how great your joy must be!
And, oh, your fate how blest!
After the storm to sing of victory,
And then lie down to rest.