Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/372

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SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND.
359

With your music on the glade,
Which the roving Indian staid,
Who of yore, at twilight dim,
Startling caught the white man's hymn,
Hallowed spires! that fleck the vale,
Heaven's ambassadors, all hail!

Trees! with arch of verdure bright,
Gleaming on the gazer's sight,
Have ye met the wintry blast
Bravely, since we saw ye last?
Was your spring-tide wakening sweet,
With the grass-flower at your feet?
Nest the birds with breasts of gold
Mid your branches as of old?
Pours the thrush his carol fair?
Glides the crimson oriole there?
Have ye o'er their callow young
Still your kind protection flung?
Blessings on ye! Dews and rain
Fill with sap each healthful vein,
Blessings on ye! Wear serene
Nature's coronet of green,
And no woodman's savage blade
Dare your birthright to invade.

Roofs! that in the vista rise
Rude or towering to the skies,
Not by wealth or taste alone
Is your innate value shown,

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