Poems and Essays

by Joseph Howe




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. [Page 66]
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. [Page 67]