Stricken and dead he lies, and blow by blow
Is being stripp’d of limb and leaf;
Now from his corse is ta’en the wreath,
His just reward for battling many a year
’Gainst elements; mourn him! your grief,
Ye trees, becomes the time; the world should hear
Your requiem, and for him drop a tear.
Each year the wild bird built its nest
High in his crown, and would its young uprear:
Centuries supreme the Forest