The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
  Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows,
  Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes—­o’ertaken
  As by some spell divine—­
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
  From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: 
  And he who wrought that spell?—­
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
  Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
  Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
  That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly
  And laurel wreaths intwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,—­
  This spray of Western pine!

* * * * *

  Three Hundred and fifty copies of this book
  printed by Edwin Grabhorn for John Howell. 
  Title page and decorations by Joseph SINEL. 
  This is copy no. [Handwritten:  37]