ARBOR DA Y MANUAL 



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THE PALM AND THE PINE. 



HEN Peter led the first Crusade, The planning Reason's sober gaze, 



A Norseman wooed an Arab maid. And Fancy's meteoric blaze. 



He loved her lithe and palmy grace, 

 And the dark beauty of her face. 



She loved his cheeks, so ruddy fair, 

 His sunny eyes and yellow hair. 



He called; she left her father's tent ; 

 She followed whereso'er he went. 



She left the palms of Palestine 

 To sit beneath the Norland pine. 



She sang the musky Orient strains 

 Where winter swept the snowy plains. 



Their natures met like Night and Morn 

 What time the morning star is born. 



The child that from their meeting grew 

 Hung like a star between the two. 



The glossy night his mother shed 

 From her long hair was on his head: 



But in its shade they saw arise 

 The morning of his father's eyes. 



Beneath the Orient's tawny stain 

 Wandered the Norseman's crimson vein. 



Beneath the Northern force was seen 

 The Arab sense, alert and keen. 



His were the Viking's sinewy hands, 

 The arching foot of Eastern lands. 



And in his soul conflicting strove 

 Northern indifference, Southern love; 



The chastity of temperate blood, 

 Impetuous passion's fiery flood; 



The settled faith that nothing shakes, 

 The jealousy a breath awakes; 



And stronger as he grew to man, 

 The contradicting natures ran, 



As mingled streams from Etna flow, 

 One born of fire, and one of snow. 



And one impelled, and one withheld^ 

 And one obeyed, and one rebelled. 



One gave him force, the other fire; 

 This self-control, and that desire. 



One filled his heart with fierce unrest; 

 With peace serene the other blessed. 



He knew the depth and knew the height, 

 The bounds of darkness and of light; 



And who these far extremes has seen 

 Must needs know all that lies between. 



So, with untaught, instinctive art 

 He read the myriad-natured heart. 



He met the men of many a land; 

 They gave their souls into his hand; 



And none of them was long unknown; 

 The hardest lesson was his own. 



But how he lived, and where, and when, 

 It matters not to other men; 



For, as a fountain disappears, 

 To gush again in later years, 



So hidden blood may find the day, 

 When centuries have rolled away: 



And fresher lives betray at last 

 The lineage of a far-off Past. 



That nature, mixed of sun and snow, 

 Repeats its ancient ebb and flow: 



The children of the Palm and Pine 

 Renew their blended lives in mine. 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 



