ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



THE FOREST TREES. 



UP with your heads, ye sylvan lords, 

 Wave proudly in the breeze, 

 For our cradle bands and coffin boards 

 Must come from the forest trees. 



We bless ye for your summer shade, 



When our weak limbs fail and tire: 

 Our thanks are due for your winter aid, 



When we pile the bright log fire. 



Oh ! where would be our rule on the sea, 



And the fame of the sailor band, 

 Were it not for the oak and cloud-crowned pine, 



That spring on the quiet land ? 



When the ribs and masts of the good ship live. 



And weather the gale with ease, 

 Take his glass from the tar who will not give 



A health to the forest trees. 



Ye lend to life its earliest joy, 



And wait on its latest page; 

 In the circling hoop for the rosy boy, 



And the easy chair for age. 



The old man totters on his way. 



With footsteps short and slow; 

 But without, the stick for his help and stay 



Not a yard's length could he go. 



The hazel twig in the stripling's hand 



Hath magic power to please ; 

 And the trusty staff and slender wand 



Are plucked from the forest trees. 



Ye are seen in the shape of the old hand loom 



And the merry ringing flail ; 

 Ye shine in the dome of the monarch's home 



And the sacred altar rail. 



In the rustic porch, the wainscoted wall, 



In the gay triumphal car; 

 In the rude built hut or the banquet hall, 



Xo matter ! there ye are ! 



Then up with your heads," ye sylvan lords! 



Wave proudly in the breeze ; 

 From our cradle bands to our coffin boards 



We're in debt to the forest trees. ELIZA COOK. 



