Poems and Essays

by Joseph Howe

 

MY NATIVE PINES.

 
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]