For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer sea.
I saw it fall, as falls a chief
By an arrow in the fight,
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf,
At the crashing of its might;
And the startled deer to their coverts drew,
And the spray of the lake as a fountain’s flew!
’Tis fallen! But think thou not I weep
For the forest’s pride o’erthrown—