Poems
and Essays
by
Joseph Howe
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MY
NATIVE PINES.
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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,
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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,
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And
’neath your fringe my head reclines,
I love to hear your sylvan
song. [Page 66]
For oft in youth my form I threw
Upon that soft and mossy
bed,
While every gentle wind that blew,
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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
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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,
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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,—
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Oh!
could the feelings thus remain,
Which first my boyish bosom
knew. [Page 67]
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