ARBOR DA Y MANUAL 



235 



LINES. 



(For the Agricultural and Horticultural Exhibition at Amesbury and Salisbury, Sept. 28, 1858.) 



THIS day, two hundred years ago, 

 The wild grape by the river's side, 

 And tasteless groundnut trailing low, 

 The table of the woods supplied. 



Unknown the apple's red and gold, 



The blushing tint of peach and pear; 



The mirror of the Powow told 



No tale of orchards ripe and rare. 



Wild as the fruits he scorned to till, 

 These vales the idle Indian trod; 



Nor knew the glad creative skill, 



The joy of him who toils with God. 



O painter of the fruits and flowers ! 



We thank thee for Thy wise design 

 Whereby these human hands of ours 



In nature's garden work with Thine. 



And thanks that from our daily need 

 The joy of simple faith is born; 



That be who smites the summer weed, 

 May trust Thee for the autumn corn. 



Give fools their gold and knaves their power. 



Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; 

 Who sows a field or trains a flower, 



Or plants a tree is more than all. 



For he who blesses most is blest; 



And God and man shall own his worth 

 Who toils to leave as his bequest 



An added beauty to the earth. 



And, soon or late, to all that sow, 



The time of harvest shall be given; 



The flower shall bloom, the fruit shall grow. 

 If not on earth, at last in heaven. 



WHITTIER. 



THE OAKS. 



HA ! ha ! we've stetnm'd the stream, 

 A thousand years along 

 Thy stormy course, O time ! 

 Sometimes in lightning's gleam, 

 And the water's rousing song, 

 And thunder crash sublime. 

 From memory long have faded, 

 The nations of our childhood, 

 And all the works of man, 

 In dust have laid, while we, 

 Exulting toss our crown, 

 Of branches, hale and free. 

 We've seen the gentle child at play, 

 The maiden fair, the lover gay, 

 And oft they sought, at evening hour, 

 Our cool, leafy bower. 



And conq'ring armies, on their way, 



Have paused beneath the arches gray; 



And age, with slow and faltering tread, 



Hath sought and blest the peaceful shade; 



O, many an army oa its way, 



Hath paused beneath our arches gray. 



And aye, with slow and faltering tread, 



Hath sought, hath blest the grateful shade; 



Then let the world roll, 



No power shall control 



Our song of a thousand years, 



We'll join when wintry tempests blow, 



And generations yet shall know 



The mighty song, amid thy stormy course, 



O time, our mighty song. 



J. C. JOHNSON. 



Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, 

 A sylvan scene ! and as the ranks ascend, 

 Shade above shade, a woody theatre 

 Of stateliest view. 



MILTON. 



