THE PALM-TREE. Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm, On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm ? A ship whose keel is of palm beneath, Branches of palm are its spars and rails, What does the good ship bear so well? What are its jars, so smooth and fine, 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 Was daintily wrought of the palm-leaf braid, Of threads of palm was the carpet spun To him the palm is a gift divine, And, in the hour of his great release, “Allah il Allah!" he sings his psalm, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. THE HOLLY-TREE. O READER! hast thou ever stood to see The holly-tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an intelligence so wise Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. I love to view these things with curious eyes, And in this wisdom of the holly-tree Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear Harsh and austere, To those who on my leisure would intrude, Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, All vain asperities I, day by day, Till the smooth temper of my age should be And as, when all the summer trees are seen The holly-leaves their fadeless hues display So, serious should my youth appear among So would I seem, amid the young and gay, That in my age as cheerful I might be ROBERT SOUTHEY. Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade; 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 SIMMS. FAIR PLEDGES OF A FRUITFUL TREE. FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, But you may stay yet here awhile What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave. ROBERT HERRICK. ALMOND BLOSSOM. BLOSSOM of the almond-trees, 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? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, A shadow for the noontide hour, What plant we in this apple-tree? What plant we in this apple-tree? While children come, with cries of glee, And when, above this apple-tree, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree. Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree. And time shall waste this apple-tree. O, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still? What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple-tree? "Who planted this old apple-tree ?” The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them : "A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple-tree.” WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THE MAIZE. "That precious seed into the furrow cast A SONG for the plant of my own native West, By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever blest, To the corn! the green corn of her pride! In climes of the East has the olive been sung, Thou bright, ever beautiful maize ! Afar in the forest the rude cabins rise, And the tops of their columns are lost in the skies, Near the skirt of the grove, where the sturdy arm swings The axe till the old giant sways, And echo repeats every blow as it rings, Shoots the green and the glorious maize ! There buds of the buckeye in spring are the first, When through the dark soil the bright steel of the plough Turns the mould from its unbroken bed, The ploughman is cheered by the finch on the bough, And the blackbird doth follow his tread. And idle, afar on the landscape descried, The deep-lowing kine slowly graze, And nibbling the grass on the sunny hillside Are the sheep, hedged away from the maize. With springtime and culture, in martial array And the sunbeams, which fall from the sky; Who ride through the darkness the beams of the moon, Through the spears and the flags of the Maize ! When the summer is fierce still its banners are green, Each warrior's long beard groweth red, His emerald-bright sword is sharp-pointed and keen, And golden his tassel-plumed head. As a host of armed knights set a monarch at naught, They defy the day-god to his gaze, And, revived every morn from the battle that's fought, Fresh stand the green ranks of the maize ! 365 But brown comes the autumn, and sear grows Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East an the corn, And the woods like a rainbow are dressed, And but for the cock and the noontide horn Old Time would be tempted to rest. The humming bee fans off a shower of gold From the mullein's long rod as it sways, And dry grow the leaves which protecting infold The ears of the well-ripened maize ! At length Indian Summer, the lovely, doth come, With its blue frosty nights, and days still, When distantly clear sounds the waterfall's hum, And the sun smokes ablaze on the hill! A dim veil hangs over the landscape and flood, And the hills are all mellowed in haze, While fall, creeping on like a monk 'neath his hood, Plucks the thick-rustling wealth of the maize. And the heavy wains creak to the barns large and gray, Where the treasure securely we hold, Housed safe from the tempest, dry - sheltered away, Our blessing more precious than gold! moon, our lantern the And long for this manna that springs from the Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her sod team! e bright mosaics! that with storied beauty, The floor of Nature's temple tessellate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create ! Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, swingeth And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky. There, as in solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preach ers, Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendor O, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender "Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours! How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory Are human flowers!" In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist! With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure; Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary I WILL not have the mad Clytic, Whom, therefore, I will'shun; The queen of every one. The pea is but a wanton witch, That always mourns the dead; With her cheeks of tender red. "THEN took the generous host A basket filled with roses. Every guest Cried, 'Give me roses!' and he thus addressed His words to all: He who exalts them most In song, he only shall the roses wear.' |