We cross the upland pasture, robed with a brown and sodden pall,
The maple ridge heaves up before—a sloping Titan wall!
The maple ridge! how gloriously, in summer it pitches tent:
Beneath, what a mossy floor is spread! above, what a roof is bent!
What lofty pillars of fluted bark! what magical changeful tints
As the leaves turn over and back again to the breeze’s flying prints.
Up, up, the beaten path I climb, with bosom of blithesome cheer,
For the song, oft varied with whistle shrill of the woodsman Keene, I hear;
The bold and hardy woodsman, whose rifle is certain death,
Whose axe, when it rings in the wilderness, makes its glory depart like breath,