UNDER THE PINES at CRAIG'S POINT ~ 1898

By Emma A. Whittier of Readfield Depot. Maine, 1898

 

Under the waving boughs of pine, Swinging too and fro,

Listening to their whispers soft, Fancies come and go.

And it seems the gentle murmur Of the branches drooping low,

Tell this story, softly sighing, While the summer breezes blow.

The Pine

Gentle wind from over the ocean, Have you any news for me?

Did you meet my tall young brother, On the land or on the sea?

Did he give you any message? Tell me! Tell me!  I would know

If his heart is ever with us As in days so long ago.

The Wind

Your brother – Oh yes I met him, Proudly holding up on high,

The emblem of our nation, Waving out against the sky.

He is top-mast of a vessel, Called the “Sea King” staunch and true,

And he’s traveled almost o’er the world, Since he still here close by you.

Yes, he sent a message to you While the stars shone bright o’erhead;

I’ve come all the way to bring it, And this is what it said.

The Mast

I think of you all in my forest home, As over the tossing waves I roam,

And I wish I was with you as of old, But I’m bound doe the life of the “Sea King” bold.

I think of the lake so cool and sweet, That laughingly dashed spray over our feet,

And the wild deer tired with chase, That found in our shade a resting place.

I think of the day when side by side, We heard the red man woo his bride,

While the wild birds sang so sweet and clear, Now the songs of the sea are all I hear;

I’ve seen many lands since that terrible day I was torn away from your side and borne away;

I’ve been to the east, the south, the west, And love my native shore the best.

I’ve sailed many days o’er the sunlit ocean With just enough wind to keep us in motion;

I’ve rode through storms with waves so high, They seemed to meet the darkened sky.

But what of yourself? Send a message clear, Does your shade still hide the timid deer?

Does the hunter’s campfire at evening glow? Dear sister, tell me all you know.

The Pine

Tell my brother when you meet him That the red man comes no more;

And the sounds of the white man’s laughter Echo now from shore to shore.

Tell him where the fleet deer wandered, Now the white man’s children play,

And where our friends of the forest stood, Are the white men’s homes today.

The waters of broad Maranacook Sing the songs of other days,

While up and down my branches wide, The bright eyed squirrel plays;

I rock young birds in their nest, And I shade the quiet pool,

Where fishermen wait the wary trout, That lurk in the waters cool.

It must be fine to see the world, But better far to me

The honor of bearing our country’s flag Wherever you may be.

Sometimes the bald-head eagle Favors me with a call, -

He remembers you, for he often speaks Of your being straight and tall.

Under the waving tasseled pines, I wait and listen for more;

But the wind is gone and all I hear Are ripples along the shore.

‘Tis sunset, and all the western sky Shines like polished gold;

Far in the east the dark clouds lie With the wind wrapped in their fold.