And wearied from the dust and heat.

Beneath a tree, I found a seat.

The tree, a tall majestic spruce,

Which had, perhaps for centuries,

Withstood, without a moment's truce,

The wing-ed warfare of the breeze;

A monarch of the solitude,

Which well might grace the noblest wood.

Beneath its cool and welcome shade,

Protected from the noontide rays,

The birds amid its branches played

And caroled forth their twittering praise;

A squirrel perched upon a limb

And chattered with loquacious vim.

E'er yet that selfsame week had sped,

On my return, I sought its shade;

But where it reared its form, instead;

A fallen monarch I surveyed,

Prostrate and broken on the ground,

Nor longer cast its shade around.

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