Classic Poem

Its leaf is withered, its branch decayed,
And the brave green crown it bore
Hath passed with the music the night-wind made
As it swept through its boughs of yore;
And it stands like a monarch to death betrayed,
Whose glory returns no more,
Lifting its giant arms on high,
Penciled out on the clear blue sky,
As the last red ray of the sun's decline
Colors with beauty the old dead pine.

We may not tell of the years that have fled
Since its shadow hath circled there,
Ere the lightning withered its stately head
And its trunk grew brown and bare;
But it stands like a mourner above the dead,
In desolate, deep despair,
Lifting its giant arms on high,
Penciled out on the clear blue sky,
As the last red ray of the sun's decline
Colors with beauty the old dead pine.

We may not tell of the thoughts that keep
Its treasures of olden days
Since it saw the wild war band's circling sweep
Or rang to their milder lays;
But it stands like a spirit whose wisdom deep
No change might more amaze,
Lifting its giant arms on high,
Penciled out on the clear blue sky,
As the last red ray of the sun's decline
Colors with beauty the old dead pine.

We may not tell how it sprung from earth,
How it grew to a stately tree,
'Till the dim day of its distant birth
Was lost from its memory—
'Till its glory was rent by the midnight mirth
Of the storm-king's revelry,
And 'twas left with its giant arms on high
Penciled out on the clear blue sky,
As the last red ray of the sun's decline
Colors with beauty the old dead pine.

Yet many a lesson the old Pine hath
For the human heart to con—
For strength in the dark day's stormy wrath—
For peace when the night comes on—
For a Heavenly trust when the weary path
Of its pilgrimage is done.
To stand with a strong heart proud and high,
With a trusting gaze on the far blue sky,
To wait for our last sun's last decline,
This we may learn from the old Dead Pine.