THE PASSING OP THE FOREST.

Temuka Leader, Issue 2508, 27 May 1893, Page 2

THE PASSING OP THE FOREST.

[by w. p. beeves]. All cannot fade that glorifies the hills; Their strength remains, their aspect of command, Their flush of color when the evening stills Day’s clamor, and their rose with morn at hand. With shouts of thunder and with songs of rills, Ancient of days in green old age they stand In grandeur that can never know decay, Though from their flanks men strip the woods away. But thin their mantle now, the restless grass, Bending and dancing as the breeze goes „ by ’ Catching quick gleams and cloudy shades that pass, As shallow seas reflect a wind-stirred sky. Ah, nobler far their forest raiment was From crown to foot that clothed them royally, Shielding their mysteries from the glare of day. Ere the high woods were reft and torn away. Well may these plundered and insulted kings, Stripped of their robes, despoiled, uncloaked, discrowned, Draw down the clouds, with white enfolding wings And soft, aerial fleece, to wrap them round, To hide the scars that every season brings, The fire’s black smirch, the landslip’s gaping wound, Well may they shroud themselves in vesture gray, Since from their sides the woods are shorn away. Gone is the forest world, its wealth of life, Its jostling, crowding, thrusting, struggling race, Creeper with creeper, bush with bush at strife, Warring and wrestling for a breathing space; Below, a realm with tangled rankness rife, Above, tree-columns, shafts of stateliest grace. Gone is the forest nation. None might stay. Giant and dwarf alike have passed away. Gone are the forest birds, arboreal things, Eaters of honey,-honey-sweet in song; Tne tui and the bell-bird—he who sings That brief, rich music we would fain prolong. Gone the wood-pigeon’s sudden whirr of wings, The daring robin, quite unused to wrong. Wild, harmless, hamadryad creatures, they Lived with their trees, and died, and passed away. Gone are the forest tracks, where oft we rode Under the silver fern-fronds, climbing slow, In cool, green tunnels, though fierce noontide glowed And glittered on the tree tops, far below. There, ’mid the stillness of the mountain road, We just could hear the valley river flow, Whose voice through many a windless summer day Haunted the silent woods, now passed away. Drinking fresh odours, spicy wafts that blew, We watched the glassy, quivering air asleep, Midway between tall cliffs that taller grew Above the unseen torrent calling deep ; Till, like a sword cleaving the greenness through, The waterfall flashed foaming down the steep; White, living water, cooling with its spray, Dense plumes of fragile fern now scorched away.. Mighty are axe and fire, destroyers twain. Swift servants of the arch destroyer, Man, And he is mighty as he hews amain, Strong pioneer of nations 1 But to scan The ruined wonder never wrought again, The ravaged beauty God alone could plan, Forces the thought—ls this the price we pay, The price for progress—Beauty swept away ?