THE GIANT PINE

Standing on a gentle slope With outstretched arms, With an air of vanished hope But still retaining charms Of glories past and gone; Of beauty most divine, Standing there alone— The giant pine. No companion tree is near Of the dead and vanished past; They have fallen, year by year— This giant is the last; And it wears a look of age Ten times the sum of nine; Of trees it is the sage— This giant pine. Around its feet there stands The modern scrubby trees, Looking up to outstretched hands, That tremble in the breeze Like priest who offers prayer To heaven’s throne divine, With outstretched arms so bare, The giant pine. Grandfather saw this tree, Years and years gone by, When but a boy was he, And, towering in the sky, This mighty giant stood, With fragrance like old wine— The guardian of the wood— This giant pine. Long centuries ago This giant pine was here, And bending to and fro, And growing, year by year, When England’s tyrant yoke Lay heavy on this land The maple and the oak Reached up their feeble hand. To ask this tree to bow Its proud and lofty head, That they might kiss its brow Before their strength had fled. They’re dead these many years— The saw-mill carved each bone, And the giant, left in tears And outstretched arms—alone. But now the axmen come, With no respect for years, And the giant, standing dumb, Drops needles, as though tears To it were long denied. Then heavy body blows Chop deep into its side, While the deep wound deeper grows. And still each outstretched limb, Above the axmen grim Asks of the clouds that swim Before the face of Him Who made the sky and earth, A blessing on each foe Who toil in savage mirth To lay the giant low. And now a spasm of pain, From base to topmost bough, Passes again—again— The lofty head must bow. Great giant, with all those charms, A violent death has found, And those strong, loving arms, Lie broken on the ground! And the echo of the roar, Caused by the giant’s fall Comes back from river shore: The giant pine so tall Lies prostrate on its face, Broken in branch and spine; The last of his giant race— Farewell, giant pine! Nothing is sacred to greedy man That can be changed to gold; Nothing is sacred of all God’s plan That can be bought and sold. Barren our mountains stand today, Their giant trees all gone; Their wondrous glories passed away— All but their rock and stone. This lone giant might have been Spared as a relic of the past; With lofty branches, ever green, Outstretched until the last. But ruthless hands have slain This giant—half divine; To say farewell gives pain— Farewell, oh, Giant Pine!