Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/263

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262

THE ELM-TREES.

I've roam'd through varied regions,
    Where stranger-streamlets run,
And where the proud magnolia flaunts
    Beneath a southern sun,
And where the sparse and stinted pine
    Puts forth its sombre form,
A vassal to the arctic cloud,
    And to the tyrant storm,

And where the pure unruffled lakes
    In placid wavelets roll,
Or where sublime Niagara shakes
    The wonder-stricken soul,
I've seen the temple's sculptured pile,
    The pencil's glorious art,
Yet still those old green trees I wore
    Depictured on my heart.

Years fled; my native vale I sought,
    Where those tall elm-trees wave;
But many a column of its trust
    Lay broken in the grave.
The ancient and the white-hair'd men,
    Whose wisdom was its stay,
For them I ask'd, and Echo's voice
    Made answer, "Where are they?"

I sought the thrifty matron,
    Whose busy wheel was heard
When the early beams of morning
    Awoke the chirping bird;