A Branch of Pine.
A BRANCH OF PINE. _Hung above a Portrait of Whitticr. BY WENDELL P. STAFFORD.
LINGER, whose going all men mourn, What should our tribute Be? Only the winter pine branch, torn From the tumultuous tree! We know what perfect flowers belong Where silent poets sleep; The roses o'er thy bed shall throng, And the pure lilies sweep. But not the bard alone we frame Within this greenwood cheer, — We crown the prophet without shame, The fighter without fear. This waif from winter's wildest hill Deserves a smile from thee : It holds the scent of summer still; It whispers of the sea. Some likeness of thy youthful day Was in its stormy strife; Something its verdure seems to say Of an unfading life! Wherever now in airs of heaven The fronded palms are blown, Dost thou not hear, more faintly given, The song our pines intone? Feb. 4, 1893. 22
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