DEATH OF THE FOREST MONARCH.

Hark! heard you that wailing cry, sad and low? A nation mourning for their chief? Stricken and dead he lies, and blow by blow Is being stripp’d of limb and leaf; Now from his corse is ta’en the wreath, His just reward for battling many a year ’Gainst elements; mourn him! your grief, Ye trees, becomes the time; the world should hear Your requiem, and for him drop a tear. Each year the wild bird built its nest High in his crown, and would its young uprear: Centuries supreme the Forest Monarch ruled; but to Earth’s broad breast That nourished him, the ax brought his return. The Forest Monarch is at rest; All nature, save the human, seems to mourn. —George W. H. Phillips, Jr.