6
THE PINE TREE.
Beneath my shade the red man slipping, Himself a shadow, stole away;A paler shadow follows him! Races may go, or races stay,The cones upon my loftiest limbThe winds will many a year be stripping;
And there the hidden day be throwing His fires, though dark the dead prime beBefore the bird shake off the dew. Ah! what songs have been sung to me;What songs will yet be sung, when youAre dust upon the four winds blowing!
