Uprooted and disheveled, there

The monarch of the forest lay;

As if in desolate despair

Its last resistance fell away,

And overwhelmed, in evil hour

Went down before the tempest's power.

Such are the final works of fate;

The birds to other branches flew;

And man, whatever his estate,

Must face that same mutation, too!

To-day, I stand erect and tall,

The morrow—may record my fall.

 

There is an Air of Majesty. 

There is an air of majesty,

A bearing dignified and free,

About the mountain peaks;

Each crag of weather-beaten stone

Presents a grandeur of its own

To him who seeks.

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