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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.

We plant, upon the sunny lea,
A shailow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,

When we plant the apple-tree.

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.

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 ; -
Coning when no flowerets would,
Save thy lowly sisterhood,
Early violets, blue and white,
Dying for their love of light.
Almond blossom, sent to teach us
That the spring days soon will reach us,
Lest, with longing over-tried,
We die as the violets died, -
Blossom, clouding all the troe
With thy crimson broidery,
Long before a leaf of green
On the bravest bough is seen, -
Ah ! when winter winds are swinging
All thy red bells into ringing,
With a bee in every bell,
Almond bloom, we greet thee well!

EDWIN ARNOLD.

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, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth,

And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine

And golden orange of the Line,
The fruit of the apple-tree.

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.

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 inade ; 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.

Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader Aush of roseate blooin, A deeper maze of verdurous glooin, 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.

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 Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;

And time shall waste this apple-tree. 0, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still ?

| 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.

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 ;
'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes

On planting the apple-tree."

With spring-time and culture, in martial array

It waves its green broadswords on high, And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray,

And the sunbeams, which fall from the sky; It strikes its green blades at the zephyrs at

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 !

LIAN CULLEN BRYANT.

When the summer is fierce still its banners are

green, THE MAIZE.

Each warrior's long beard groweth red, "That precious seed into the furrow cast

| His emerald-bright sword is sharp-pointed and Earliest in spring-time crowns the harvest last."

keen, PHEBE CARY.

** ! And golden his tassel-plumed head. A song for the plant of my own native West, As a host of armed knights set a monarch at Where nature and freedom reside,

naught, By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever blest,' That defy the day-god to his gaze,

To the corn! the green corn of her pride! And, revived every morn from the battle that's In climes of the East has the olive been sung,

fought, And the grape been the theme of their lays ; Fresh stand the green ranks of the maize! But for thee shall a harp of the back woods be strung,

| But brown comes the autumn, and sear grows Thou bright, ever beautiful maize !

the corn,

And the woods like a rainbow are dressed, Afar in the forest the rude cabins rise,

And but for the cock and the noontide horn And send up their pillars of smoke,

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,

From the mullein's long rod as it sways, O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak ;

And dry grow the leaves which protecting infold Near the skirt of the grove, where the sturdy The ears of the well-ripened maize!

arm swings The axe till the old giant sways,

At length Indian Summer, the lovely, doth come, And echo repeats every blow as it rings,

With its blue frosty nights, and days still, Shoots the green and the glorious maize! When distantly clear sounds the waterfall's hum,

And the sun smokes ablaze on the hill ! There buds of the buckeye in spring are the first, | A dim veil hangs over the landscape and flood,

And the willow's gold hair then appears, 1 And the hills are all rellowed in haze, And snowy the cups of the dogwood that burst While Fall, creeping on like a monk 'neath his By the red bud, with pink-tinted tears.

hood, And striped the bolls which the poppy holds up! Plucks the thick-rustling wealth of the maize.

For the dew, and the sun's yellow rays, And brown is the paw paw's shade-blossoming And the heavy wains creak to the barns large

and gray, In the wood, near the sun loving maize ! ! Where the treasure securely we hold,

Housed safe from the tempest, dry-sheltered away, When through the dark soil the bright steel of Our blessing more precious than gold ! the plough

And long for this manna that springs from the sod Turns the mould from its unbroken bed : Shall we gratefully give him the praise, The ploughman is cheered by the finch on the The source of all bounty, our Father and God, bough,

í Who sent us from heaven the maize ! And the blackbird doth follow his tread.

WILLIAM W. FOSDICK,

cup,

bette

fold.

comes laten

o of

THE PUMPKIN.

| Then thanks for thy present ! --- none sweeter or

better O, GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun,

nds of the sun,

farma

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, And the rock and the tree and the cottage en- Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than

thine! With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to all gold,

express, Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be grew,

less, While he waited to know that his warning was that the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, true,

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in

grow, vain

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie !

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. On the banks of the Xenil, the dark Spanish

maiden Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold

DAY-stars ! that ope your frownless eyes to Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres

twinkle of gold ;

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, Yet with dearer delight from his home in the

the And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle North,

As a libation. On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly shines,

| Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, And the sun of September melts down on his vines. Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy

Incense on high. Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West,

Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty From North and from South come the pilgrim! The floor of Nature's temple tessellate, and guest,

What numerous emblems of instructive duty When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round

Your forms create ! his board The old broken links of affection restored,

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that When the care-wearied man seeks his mother

swingeth

And tolls its perfume on the passing air, once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth before,

A call to prayer. What moistens the lip and what brightens the Not to the domes where crumbling arch and col

umn What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin.

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, pie ?

But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,

Which God hath planned ; C, fruit loved of boyhooil ! the old days recalling; When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, were falling !

i Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,

supply ; Claring out through the dark with a candle Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, within !

Its dome the sky. When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,

There, as in solitude and shade I wander Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, Through the green aisles, or stretched upon Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steamı,

the sod, In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her Awed by the silence, reverently ponder team!

The ways of God,

eye?

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