Hail to the pride of the forest—­hail
    To the maple, tall and green;
  It yields a treasure which ne’er shall fail
    While leaves on its boughs are seen. 
      When the moon shines bright,
      On the wintry night,
  And silvers the frozen snow;
      And echo dwells
      On the jingling bells
  As the sleighs dart to and fro;
      Then it brightens the mirth
      Of the social hearth
  With its red and cheery glow.

  Afar, ’mid the bosky forest shades,
    It lifts its tall head on high;
  When the crimson-tinted evening fades
    From the glowing saffron sky;
      When the sun’s last beams
      Light up woods and streams,
  And brighten the gloom below;
      And the deer springs by
      With his flashing eye,
  And the shy, swift-footed doe;
      And the sad winds chide
      In the branches wide,
  With a tender plaint of woe.

  The Indian leans on its rugged trunk,
    With the bow in his red right-hand,
  And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk
    From the glorious forest land. 
      But, blythe and free,
      The maple-tree
  Still tosses to sun and air
      Its thousand arms,
      While in countless swarms
  The wild bee revels there;
      But soon not a trace
      Of the red man’s race
  Shall be found in the landscape fair.

  When the snows of winter are melting fast,
    And the sap begins to rise,
  And the biting breath of the frozen blast
    Yields to the spring’s soft sighs,
      Then away to the wood,
      For the maple, good,
  Shall unlock its honied store;
      And boys and girls,
      With their sunny curls,
  Bring their vessels brimming o’er
      With the luscious flood
      Of the brave tree’s blood,
  Into cauldrons deep to pour.

  The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red;
    Far down in the forest dark,
  A ruddy glow on the trees is shed,
    That lights up their rugged bark;
      And with merry shout,
      The busy rout
  Watch the sap as it bubbles high;
      And they talk of the cheer
      Of the coming year,
  And the jest and the song pass by;
      And brave tales of old
      Round the fire are told,
  That kindle youth’s beaming eye.

  Hurrah!  For the sturdy maple-tree! 
    Long may its green branch wave;
  In native strength sublime and free,
    Meet emblem for the brave. 
      May the nation’s peace
      With its growth increase,
  And its worth be widely spread;
      For it lifts not in vain
      To the sun and rain
  Its tall, majestic head. 
      May it grace our soil,
      And reward our toil,
  Till the nation’s heart is dead.

CHAPTER XXVIII

CANADIAN SKETCHES