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!