Well might proud tales be told by thee,
Last of the solemn wood!
Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,
With leaves yet darkly green?
Stillness is round, and noontide glows—
Tell us what thou hast seen.
“I have seen the forest-shadows lie
Where men now reap the corn;
I have seen the kingly chase rush by
Through the deep glades at morn.