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ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



THE OLIVE TREES OF PALESTINE. 



1 am like a green olive tree in the house of God. PSALM 52 : 8. 



AMONG the gray old rounded hills, 

 O'er regions broad of Holy Land, 

 A grateful scene the vision fills, 



Where clustering groves of olive stand. 



Rich in the vales, the slopes they trace, 

 And oft the rocky summits crown; 



The thrifty saplings grow apace 



Beside the trees of gnarled renown. 



Slowly the grafted stems mature 

 From olives wild no fruit appears 



But long the sturdy plants endure, 

 And measure oft a thousand years. 



They love the hard and flinty soil, 



Drive down their roots amid the rocks, 



Draw out from thence their choicest oil, 

 And stand secure from stormy shocks. 



Symmetric beauty, humble, calm, 

 Their pleasant features clearly mark, 



Not like the tall and tufted palm, 

 Nor tapering cypress, slender, dark. 



When vernal airs and skies appear, 

 Star-blooms of purest white are seen, 



'Mid narrow leaves that all the year 

 Keep an unchanging evergreen. 



As autumn days their exit make. 



Ring all the groves in merry gale, 

 While stalwart hands the branches shake, 



And purple fruit descends like hail. 



Their sacks the gleeful maidens fill, 

 And bear them on their heads away; 



On topmost boughs are berries still, 

 To cheer the poor who hither stray. 



When sacred hills in mantling snow 

 Feel winter storms along them sweep, 



And torrents cold through valleys flow, 

 Unwithered leaves the olives keep. 



The richest wealth the people know, 

 The largest comforts that they see, 



Each daily meal, the lamp's bright glow. 

 Attest the value of the tree. 



Down to their life's remotest stage, 

 Though trunk decays and boughs are grim, 



The reverend forms are green in age, 

 And berries hang from every limb. 



Such are the grand old sacred trees 



I saw in sweet Gethsemane, 

 And thought of Him whose holy knees 



Bowed under burdens there for me. 



While blossoms fade, or falling oft Along the slope of that dear hill, 

 From arching boughs they lately decked, To where He vanished in the sky, 



That dusky hue of foliage soft Infrequent stands the olive still, 

 With deeper emerald gems is flecked. To bring the days of Jesus nigh. 



Through arid heats of summer time, And o'er the ridge they cluster sweet, 



When fountains fail and leaves are brown, Where Bethany, beloved for Him, 



That fadeless verdure holds its prime, So oft received His weary feet, 



And rounding berries fill its crown. When day declined to twilight dim. 



Emblem of peace! I would like thee 



In living faithfulness abound; 

 Oh! let me, like the olive tree. 



Within the house of God be found. 

 Hours at Home, iS66. 



