Classic Poem

It stands where Nature's pulses freeze
Beneath the Polar eye,
And hangs its drooping banners out
'Neath India's burning sky.
From north to south, from east to west,
Where e'er the sun may shine,
It lifts and waves its lordly crest—
The all-enduring Pine.

In regions wildest and unknown,
Beside the restless sea,
It breathes its deep and mellow tone
Through Nature's minstrelsy;
'Tis heard upon the mountain's breast
And by the river's line,
And mid the busy haunts of men,—
The melancholy Pine.

Its balmy breath is on the air,
Amid the forest gloom,
The early winds of morning bear
Its delicate perfume.
Its dewy odor fills the sense
At evening's slow decline,
And night's soft pinions linger still
Around the fragrant Pine.

I love it—it hath been to me
An old familiar friend,
And broadly o'er my native land
Its waving branches bend.
And widely through its hallowed soil
Its rugged roots entwine,
And wreathe with every thought of home
The well-remembered Pine.

I love it, for its music breathes
O'er many a hallowed spot
Where lie the loved and lowly dead
Who may not be forgot;
And when I seek their holy rest,
Oh! may this heart recline,
My Southern home, upon thy breast,
Beneath the mourning Pine.