We plant, upon the sunny lea, What plant we in this apple-tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree! Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple-tree. And when, above this apple-tree, And guests in prouder homes shall see, The fruitage of this apple-tree Each year shall give this apple-tree And time shall waste this apple-tree. What shall the tasks of mercy be, "Who planted this old apple-tree?" The gray-haired man shall answer them : Born in the rude but good old times; 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, And the grape been the theme of their lays; But for thee shall a harp of the backwoods be strung, Thou bright, ever beautiful maize ! Afar in the forest the rude cabins rise, And send up their pillars of smoke, And idle, afar on the landscape descried, noon, And at night at the swift-flying fays, 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 Each warrior's long beard groweth red, keen, And golden his tassel-plumed head. As a host of armed knights set a monarch at naught, That 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 ! But brown comes the autumn, and sear grows 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. And the tops of their columns are lost in the The humming bee fans off a shower of gold skies, O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak ; The axe till the old giant sways, Shoots the green and the glorious maize ! There buds of the buckeye in spring are the first, And cup, In the wood, near the sun-loving maize ! When through the dark soil the bright steel of the plough Turns the mould from its unbroken bed From the mullein's long rod as it sways, At length Indian Summer, the lovely, doth come, 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, The ploughman is cheered by the finch on the The source of all bounty, our Father and God, bough, And the blackbird doth follow his tread. Who sent us from heaven the maize ! Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round The old broken links of affection restored, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbatli in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. What moistens the lip and what brightens the Not to the domes where crumbling arch and coleye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkinpie ? C, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling; When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a candle within ! When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, umn Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, There, as in solitude and shade I wander In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her Awed by the silence, reverently ponder team! The ways of God, BETROTHED ANEW. THE sunlight fills the trembling air, The golden nurslings of the May Entangled where the willows lean. Mark how the rippled currents flow; Or borne afar our blissful youth? We know the whisper was not truth. The birds that break from grass and grove O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true, With whose delights our souls are rife, And aye their vernal vows renew! Then, darling, walk with me this morn; Let your brown tresses drink its sheen; These violets, within them worn, Of floral fays shall make you queen. What though there comes a time of pain |