Classic Poem

My native Pines — my native Pines,
I love beneath your boughs to stray,
While morning's sun upon you shines
With bright, and warm, and fervid ray;
For oh! 'twas thus in childhood's hours,
I rov'd beneath them wild and free,
And gathered May's unsullied flowers,
That sprung around each forest tree.

My native Pines — my native Pines,
While noon-day breezes steal along,
And 'neath your fringe my head reclines,
I love to hear your sylvan song.
For oft in youth my form I threw
Upon that soft and mossy bed,
While every gentle wind that blew,
Seem'd fairy music round me shed.

My native Pines — my native Pines,
While Luna's soft and silv'ry beam,
In holy, bright, and dazzling lines,
Dwells on your boughs, — I love to dream
Of those unclouded moonlight nights,
When youthful friends around me stood,
And all the blissful, dear delights,
We tasted in the lonely wood.

My native Pines — my native Pines,
Your stately tops still proudly rear;
Than blooming flow'rs — or clustering vines.
To me your boughs are far more dear.
Your spreading branches still retain
Their verdant, bright, and emerald hue, —
Oh! could the feelings thus remain,
Which first my boyish bosom knew.

My native Pines — my native Pines,
I love beneath your boughs to stray,
While morning's sun upon you shines
With bright, and warm, and fervid ray;
For oh! 'twas thus in childhood's hours,
I rov'd beneath them wild and free,
And gathered May's unsullied flowers,
That sprung around each forest tree.

My native Pines — my native Pines,
While noon-day breezes steal along,
And 'neath your fringe my head reclines,
I love to hear your sylvan song.
For oft in youth my form I threw
Upon that soft and mossy bed,
While every gentle wind that blew,
Seem'd fairy music round me shed.

My native Pines — my native Pines,
While Luna's soft and silv'ry beam,
In holy, bright, and dazzling lines,
Dwells on your boughs, — I love to dream
Of those unclouded moonlight nights,
When youthful friends around me stood,
And all the blissful, dear delights,
We tasted in the lonely wood.

My native Pines — my native Pines,
Your stately tops still proudly rear;
Than blooming flow'rs — or clustering vines.
To me your boughs are far more dear.
Your spreading branches still retain
Their verdant, bright, and emerald hue, —
Oh! could the feelings thus remain,
Which first my boyish bosom knew.