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Utensils domestic and civil and social | Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, I give you an evening to pack up ;
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. But if the moon of this night does not rise on your Here is continual worship ; - nature, here, flight,
In the tranquillity that thou dost love, To-morrow I 'll hang each man Jack up. Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around, You'llthink of my peasand your thievish tricks, From perch to perch, the solitary bird With tears of slime, when crossing the Styx. Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,
ANONYMOUS. Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Ofthy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace TIIE groves were God's first temples. Ere man Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, learned
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, Almost annihilated, -- not a prince, And spread the roof above them,-- ere he framed in all that proud old world beyond the deep, The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare And supplication. For his simple heart Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower Might not resist the sacred influences
With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven | An emanation of the indwelling Life, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound A visible token of the upholding Love, Of the invisible breath that swayed at once That are the soul of this wide universe. All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power My heart is awed within me when I think And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why
Of the great miracle that still goes on, Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect In silence, round me, – the perpetual work God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
Forever. Written on thy works I read
Lo! all grow old and die ; but see again,
Youth presses, - ever gay and beautiful youth
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Father, thy hand | Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Hath reared these venerable columns, thou Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look One of Earth's charms ! upon her bosom yet, down
After the flight of untold centuries, Upon the naked earth, and fortlwith rose The freshness of her far beginning lies, All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, of his arch-enemy Death, — yea, seats himself And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Among their branches, till at last they stood, | Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth As now they stand, massy and tail and dark, From thine own boson, and shall have no end. Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, There have been holy men who hid themselves These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Report not. No fantastic carvings show
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The boast of our vain race to change the form The generation born with them, nor seemed of thy fair works. But thou art here, - thou fill'st Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds Around them ; - and there have been holy men That run along the summit of these trees Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. In music; thou art in the cooler breath
But let me often to these solitudes That from the inmost darkness of the place | Retire, and in thy presence reassure
THE ARAB TO THE PALM.
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,
Next to thee, O fair gazelle,
Next to the fearless Nedjidee,
Next to ye both, I love the tree
The swist dark whirlwind that uproots the woods
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Our tribe is many, our pocts vie
A slumberous motion, a passionate sign,
Full of passion and sorrow is he, Dreaming where the beloved may be.
And when the warm south-winds arise,
The sun may slame, and the sands may stir, But the breath of his passion reaches her.
O tree of love, by that love of thinc, Teach me how I shall soften niine !
THE BRAVE OLD OAK. A song to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who hath ruled in the greenwood long ; Here 's health and renown to his broad green crown,
And his fifty arms so strong. There 's fear in his frown when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out;
Who stands in his pride alone ;
When a hundred years are gone !
Had brightened his branches gray,
To gather the dew of May.
They frolicked with lovesome swains ;
laid, But the tree it still remains.
Then here's, &c. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes
Was a merry sound to hear, When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.
And a ruthless king is he;
H. F. CHORLEY.
Give me the secret of the sun, Whereby the wooed is ever won !
If I were a king, 0 stately tree,
With a shaft of silver, burnished bright, And leaves of beryl and malachite;
With spikes of golden bloom ablaze, And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase.
And there the poets, in thy praise,
New measures sung to tunes divine ;
THE PALM-TREE. Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm, On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm ? Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm ?
A ship whose keel is of palm beneath,
Branches of palm are its spars and rails,
Ordered by an intelligence so wise
Wrinkled and keen ;
Can reach to wound;
Can emblems see
Harsh and austere, -
Reserved and rude ;
Some harshness show,
Would wear away,
What are its jars, so smooth and finc,
Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm ?
In the cabin he sits on a palm-mat soft,
His dress is woven of palmy strands,
The turban folded about his head
And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green, The holly-leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they ; But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the holly-tree ?
Of threads of palm was the carpet spun
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
So, serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;
More grave than they ;
THE GRAPE-VINE SWING.
LITHE and long as the serpent train, | Springing and clinging from tree to tree, Now darting upward, now down again,
With a twist and a twirl that are strange to see ; Never took serpent a deadlier hold,
Never the cougar a wilder spring, Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, | Spanning the beech with the condor's wing.
O READER ! hast thou ever stood to see
The holly-tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves
Yet no foe that we fear to seek, — | The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace ;
Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek
As ever on lover's breast found place; On thy waving train is a playful hold
Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade ; While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold,
And swings and sings in the noonday shade!
Almond blossom, sent to teach us
O giant strange of our southern woods,
I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean floods,
And the northern forest beholds thee not; I think of thee still with a sweet regret,
As the cordage yields to my playful grasp, — Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet ? Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp ?
WILLIAM GILMORE SIAMS.
FAIR PLEDGES OF A FRUITFUL TREE. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast ?
Your date is not so past
And go at last.
What! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night? "T is pity Nature brought ye forth, Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so biave; And after they have shown their pride Like you awhile, they glide
Into the grave.
THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.
COME, let us plant the apple-tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made ; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care,
And press it o'er them tenderly, As round the sleeping infant's feet We softly fold the cradle-sheet;
So plant we the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Wo plant, upon the sunny lea,
When we plant the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
A world of blossoms for the bee,
We plant with the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree ?
While children come, with cries of glee,
At the foot of the apple-tree.
And when, above this apple-tree,
ALMOND BLOSSOM. Blossom of the almond-trees, April's gift to April's bees, Birthday ornament of spring, Flora's fairest daughterling ; -Coming when no flowerets dare Trust the cruel outer air, When the royal king-cup bold Dares not don his coat of gold, And the sturdy blackthorn spray Keeps his silver for the May ;Coming when no flowerets would, Save thy lowly sisterhood, Early violets, blue and white, Dying for their love of light.
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, | In climes of the East has the olive been sung, Shall peel its fruit by cottage lacarth,
And the grape been the theme of their lays, And guests in prouder homes shall sce, But for thee shall a harp of the backwoods be Hicaped with the grape of Cintra's vinc
strung, And golden orange of the Line,
Thou bright, cver beautiful maize ! The fruit of the apple-tree.
Afar in the forest the rude cabins rise, The fruitage of this apple-trec
And send up their pillars of smoke, Winds and our flag of stripe and star
And the tops of their columns are lost in the skies, Shall bear to coasts that lic afar,
O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak; Where men shall wonder at the view, Near the skirt of the grove, where the sturdy arm And ask in what fair groves they grew;
swings And sojourners beyond the sea
The axe till the old giant sways,
Shoots the green and the glorious maize ! In the shade of the apple-tree.
There buds of the buckeye in spring are thc first, Each year shall give this apple-trce
And the willow's gold hair then appears, A broader flush of roseatc bloom,
And snowy the cups of the dogwood that burst A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
By the red bud, with pink-tinted tears. And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, And striped the bolls which the popny holds up The crisp brown lcaves in thicker shower.
For the dew, and the sun's yellow rays, The years shall come and pass, but we And brown is the pawpaw's shade-blossoming cup, Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
In the wood, near the sun-loving maize! The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-trec.
When through the dark soil the bright steel of
the plough And time shall waste this apple-tree.
Turns the mould from its unbroken bed, 0, when its aged branches throw
The ploughman is cheered by the finch on the Thin shadows on the ground below,
bough, Shall fraud and force and iron will
And the blackbird doth follow his trcad. Oppress the weak and helpless still ?
And idle, afar on the landscape descried, What shall the tasks of mercy be,
The deep-lowing kine slowly graze, Amid the toils, the striles, the tears
And nibbling the grass on the sunny hillside of those who live when length of years
Are the sheep, hedged away from the maize. Is wasting this apple-trec ?
With springtime and culture, in martial array “Who planted this old apple-tree ?”.
It waves its green broadswords on high, The children of that distant day ,
And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray, Thus to some aged man shall say ;
And the sunbeams, which fall from the sky; And, gazing on its mossy stem,
It strikes its green blades at the zephyrs at noon, The gray-haired man shall answer them : And at night at the swift-flying fays, “A poct of the land was he,
Who ride through the darkness the beams of the Born in the rude but good old times ;
moon, "T is said he made some quaint old rhymes | Through the spears and the flags of the Maize! On planting the apple-tree." WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. When the summer is fierce still its banners are
His emerald-bright sword is sharp-pointed and
keen, "That precious seed into the furrow cast
And golden his tassel-plumed head.
As a host of armed knights set a monarch at
naught, A song for the plant of my own native West, They defy the day-god to his gaze, Where nature and freedom reside,
And, revived every morn from the battle that's By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever blest, fought,
To the corn! the green corn of her pride! | Fresh stand the green ranks of the maize !