"We stand, though years on years have rolled And finished their weary length; And our dark leaves glitter, our branches fold, Proud in their native strength. We lift up our heads towards the azure sky, Glistening in pale moonlight, When is heard the night-bird's piercing cry, Through the trembling silence of night.
"On our bosom a sign of gloom we wear, Through which as the dim mists stray, The graceful forms of the bounding deer Vanish in beauty away; And the deep, clear notes of the forest-bird Melt through the shadowy space, Where never the sounding axe was heard Felling our ancient race.
"We stand, though year hath followed year, And finished a weary length, And, feeling of storm and time no fear, Exult in our lusty strength. Grand as the skies that it looks upon Is our bright and golden sheen; Our secrets are all unheard, unknown, And our depths are by man unseen."
So sang the forest, as it swung Its lithe arms towards the sky, And the air was filled and the branches rung With the kingly minstrelsy; The leaping fountain sent its voice To join with the chanting throng, And like a sinless soul rejoice In the ecstasy of song.
And the little flowers that blushed unseen, Their heads in reverence bowed; Like sweet thoughts in the heart, I ween, Unvalued by the crowd; Yet for the richness poured on earth, They blessed the minstrel-hand, And sent their fragrant spirits forth, To join with the minstrel-band.
So looked the forest, dark and high, A thing of seeming pride; For its head was heaving towards the sky, And its arms extended wide. It stood like a strong and mighty realm, Unvisited by foes; Yet there was none to guide the helm, In the hour of its repose.
For hark! hark! from its farthest bound, A sharp, quick blow is heard! And the mighty forest, at the sound, Is with strong anger stirred. But still the sound recurs, and then A sudden crash succeeds, With echoing shouts of hardy men, The doers of evil deeds.
The sentence is read—let the forest grieve, For the axe strikes at its root; It is idle to cherish hope of reprieve, For the trees bear golden fruit; And one by one, they must pass away, And let in the sun's warm rays, Like a strong race smitten by decay, In the noontide of their days.
They must fall—but nobly will they fall, Like warriors in their pride; Each stately trunk attests to all, How fearlessly it died! They must fall! but their foes will cry aloud, And no bootless warrior sing Like the high Hungarian chief, who vowed His corse worth the plundering.
O stately forest! much of gold Is locked in thy bosom fast; Though richer than Persian kings of old, It will all be seized at last. For men have entered thy charmed domain, And empire hath found a prey! And thou must vanish from the plain, As she extends her sway.
