234 ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



THE FIRST FLOWERS. 



FOR ages on our river borders, But never yet from smiling river, 

 These tassels in their tawny bloom, Or song of early bird, have they 



And willowy studs of downy silver, Been greeted with a gladder welcome 

 Have prophesied of spring to come. Than whispers from my heart to-day. 



For ages have the unbound waters They break the spell of cold and darkness, 



Smiled on them from their pebbly hem, The weary watch of sleepless pain; 



And the clear carol of the robin And from my heart as from the river, 



And song of bluebird welcomed them. The ice of winter melts again. 



WHITTIER. 



HYMN. 



(For the American Horticultural Society, 1882.) 



PAINTER of the fruits and flowers, But blest by Thee, our patient toil 

 We own Thy wise design, May right the ancient wrong, 



Whereby these human hands of ours And give to every clime and soil 

 May share the work of Thine ! The beauty lost so long. 



Apart from Thee we plant in vain Our homestead flowers and fruited trees 

 The root and sow the seed; May Eden's orchard shame; 



Thy early and Thy later rain, We taste the tempting sweets of these 

 Thy sun and dew we need. Like Eve, without her blame. 



Our toil is sweet with thankfulness, And, north and south and east and west 

 Our burden is our boon; The pride of every zone, 



The curse of earth's gray morning is The fairest, rarest and the best 

 The blessing of its noon. May all be made our own. 



Why search the wide world everywhere Its earliest shrines the young world sought 

 For Eden's unknown ground ? In hill-groves and in bowers, 



That garden of the primal pair The fittest offerings thither brought 

 May nevermore be found. Were Thy own fruits and flowers. 



And still with reverent hands we cull 



Thy gifts each year renewed; 

 The good is always beautiful. 



The beautiful is good. 



WHITTIER. 



There never yet was flower fair in vain, 



Let classic poets rhyme it as they will; 

 The seasons toil that it may blow again, 



And summer's heart doth feel its every ill. 



LOWELL. 



