Through the green plumage of the hemlocks old—
A spiritual thing;
While butterflies round marshy spots are wheeling,
Clad in their dazzling liveries of gold.
The dusky lord of knife and hatchet roves
Near my wild haunt of loveliness no more;
He saw, amid his old ancestral groves,
Throng pale invaders from a foreign shore—
Then heard the sylvan monarchs, one by one,
With all their leafy diadems laid low,