His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.
Then think I of deep shadows in the grass,
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,
Where, as the breezes pass,

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways,
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue
That from the distance sparkle through
Some woodland gap, and of a sky above

Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee;
The sight of thee calls back the robin's song,
Who from the dark old tree

Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,
And I, secure in childish piety,

Listened as if I heard an angel sing

With news from heaven, which he did bring

Fresh every day to my untainted ears,

When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

Thou art the type of those meek charities
Which make up half the nobleness of life,

Those cheap delights the wise

Pluck from the dusty wayside of earth's strife;
Words of frank cheer, glances of friendly eyes,
Love's smallest coin, which yet to some may give
The morsel that may keep alive

A starving heart, and teach it to behold

Some glimpse of God where all before was cold.

Thy wingéd seeds, whereof the winds take care,
Are like the words of poet and of sage

Which through the free heaven fare,
And, now unheeded, in another age

Take root, and to the gladdened future bear
That witness which the present would not heed,
Bringing forth many a thought and deed,
And, planted safely in the eternal sky,
Bloom into stars which earth is guided by.

Full of deep love thou art, yet not more full
Than all thy common brethren of the ground,
Wherein, were we not dull,

Some words of highest wisdom might be found;
Yet earnest faith from day to day may cull
Some syllables, which, rightly joined, can make
A spell to soothe life's bitterest ache,

And ope heaven's portals, which are near us still,
Yea, nearer ever than the gates of ill.

How like a prodigal doth nature seem,
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!
Thou teachest me to deem

More sacredly of every human heart,
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam

Of Heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
Did we but pay the love we owe,

And with a child's undoubting wisdom look

On all these living pages of God's book.

But let me read thy lesson right or no,
Of one good gift from thee my heart is sure;
Old I shall never grow

While thou each year dost come to keep me pure
With legends of my childhood; ah, we owe
Well more than half life's holiness to these
Nature's first lowly influences,

At thought of which the heart's glad doors burst ope,
In dreariest days, to welcome peace and hope.

PLANT A TREE.

He who plants a tree

Plants a hope.

Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope;

Leaves unfold into horizons free.

So man's life must climb

From the clods of time

Unto heavens sublime.

Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree,
What the glory of thy boughs shall be?

He who plants a tree
Plants a joy ;

Plants a comfort that will never cloy.
Every day a fresh reality.

Beautiful and strong,

To whose shelter throng

Creatures blithe with song.

If thou could'st but know, thou happy tree,
Of the bliss that shall inhabit thee.

He who plants a tree
He plants peace.

Under its green curtains jargons cease,
Leaf and zephyr murmur soothingly;
Shadows soft with sleep

Down tired eyelids creep,

Balm of slumber deep.

Never hast thou dreamed, thou blessed tree,
Of the benediction thou shalt be.

He who plants a tree
He plants youth;

Vigor won for centuries, in sooth;
Life of time, that hints eternity!
Boughs their strength uprear,
New shoots every year

On old growths appear.

Thou shalt teach the ages, sturdy tree,
Youth of soul is immortality.

He who plants a tree
He plants love;

Tents of coolness spreading out above
Wayfarers he may not live to see,
Gifts that grow are best;

Hands that bless are blest;

Plant life does the rest!

Heaven and earth help him who plants a tree,
And his work its own reward shall be.

AUTUMN VOICES.

When I was in the wood to-day

The golden leaves were falling round me,

And I thought I heard soft voices say

Words that with sad enchantment bound me.

'O dying year! O flying year!

O days of dimness, nights of sorrow!
O lessening light! O lengthening night!
O morn forlorn and hopeless morrow!"
No bodies visible had these

Whose voice I heard so sadly calling;
They were the spirits of the trees

Lamenting o'er the bright leaves falling. Prisoners in naked trunks they lie,

In leafless boughs have lodging slender; But soon as spring is in the sky

They deck again the woods with splendor. The light leaves rustled on the ground, Wind-stirred, and when again I hearkened, Hushed were those voices: wide around

Night fell, and all the ways were darkened.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

I come, I come! ye have called me long;
I come o'er the mountains, with light and song
Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains;
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves !
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen !
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth !
Their light stems thrill in the wildwood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.
Woodman, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.

'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand;
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown

Are spread o'er land and sea

And would'st thou hack it down?

Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties !

O spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy.

Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my hand-
Forgive the foolish tear;

But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend;
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall harm it not.

THE OAK TREE.

Sing for the oak tree, the monarch of the wood!
Sing for the oak, that groweth green and good!

That groweth broad and branching within the forest shade;
That groweth now, and still shall grow when we are lowly laid!
The oak tree was an acorn once, and fell upon the earth;
And sun and shower nourished it, and gave the oak tree birth;
The little sprouting oak tree! two leaves it had at first,
Till sun and shower nourished it, then out the branches burst.
The winds came and the rain fell; the gusty tempest blew;
All, all, were friends to the oak tree, and stronger yet it grew.
The boy that saw the acorn fall, he feeble grew and gray;
But the oak was still a thriving tree, and strengthened every day
Four centuries grows the oak tree, nor does its verdure fail;
Its heart is like the iron-wood, its bark like plaited mail.
Now cut us down the oak tree, the monarch of the wood;
And of its timber stout and strong we'll build a vessel good.
The oak tree of the forest both east and west shall fly;
And the blessings of a thousand lands upon our ship shall lie.
She shall not be a man-of-war, nor a pirate shall she be ;
But a noble Christian merchant ship, to sail upon the sea.

WAITING FOR THE MAY.

From out his hive there came a bee;

'Has spring-time come or not?" said he.
Alone within a garden bed

A small, pale snowdrop raised its head.
"'Tis March, this tells me," said the bee;
"The hive is still the place for me;