Yet here and there a lonely tree
Still sounds a mournful melody,
And answering, in low refrain,
The winds repeat the solemn strain,
Until the hills conscious of harm,
Awaken in a wild alarm,
Until, with trumpets to the sky,
They echo up to Heaven the cry:--
Ye Forests, rouse--shake off thy shroud,
And sound a protest, long and loud;
Ye Mountains, speak, and Heaven, chide
This carelessness of Christmastide--
And Man, thou prodigal of Time,
Bestir thyself--and heed my rhyme,
And curb this crime of Christmastime.