Hail to the pride of the forest—hailTo the maple, tall and green;It yields a treasure which ne'er shall failWhile leaves on its boughs are seen.When the moon shines bright,On the wintry night,And silvers the frozen snow;And echo dwellsOn the jingling bellsAs the sleighs dart to and fro;Then it brightens the mirthOf the social hearthWith its red and cheery glow.Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades,It lifts its tall head on high;When the crimson-tinted evening fadesFrom the glowing saffron sky;When the sun's last beamsLight up woods and streams,And brighten the gloom below;And the deer springs byWith his flashing eye,And the shy, swift-footed doe;And the sad winds chideIn 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 sunkFrom the glorious forest land.But, blithe and free,The maple-tree,Still tosses to sun and airIts thousand arms,While in countless swarmsThe wild bee revels there;But soon not a traceOf the red man's raceShall 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 blastYields 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'erWith the luscious floodOf the brave tree's blood,Into caldrons 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 ragged bark;And with merry shout,The busy routWatch the sap as it bubbles high;And they talk of the cheerOf the coming year,And the jest and the song pass by;And brave tales of oldRound the fire are told,That kindle youth's beaming eye.Hurra! 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 peaceWith its growth increase,And its worth be widely spread;For it lifts not in vainTo the sun and rainIts tall, majestic head.May it grace our soil,And reward our toil,Till the nation's heart is dead!
Reader! my task is ended.