ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 285 



While the song-sparrow, warbling from her perch. 



Tells you that spring is near. The wind of May 



Is sweet with breath of orchards, in whose boughs 



The bees and every insect of the air 



Make a perpetual murmur of delight. 



And by whose flowers the humming-bird hangs poised 



In air, and draws their sweets and darts away. 



The linden, in the fervors of July, 



Hums with a louder concert. When the wind 



Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, 



As when some master-hand exulting sweeps 



The keys of some great organ, ye give forth 



The music of the woodland depths, a hymn 



Of gladness and of thanks. The hermit-thrush 



Pipes his sweet note to make your arches ring; 



The faithful robin, from the wayside elm, 



Carols all day to cheer his sitting mate ; 



And when the autumn comes, the kings of earth, 



In all their majesty, are not arrayed 



As ye are, clothing the broad mountain-side 



And spotting the smooth vales with red and gold ; 



While, swaying to the sudden breeze, ye fling 



Your nuts to earth, and the brisk squirrel comes 



To gather them, and barks with childish glee, 



And scampers with them to his hollow oak. 



Thus, as the seasons pass, ye keep alive 

 The cheerfulness of Nature, till in time 

 The constant misery which wrings the heart 

 Relents, and we rejoice with you again, 

 And glory in your beauty ; till once more 

 We look with pleasure on your varnished leaves, 

 That gayly glance in sunshine, and can hear, 

 Delighted, the soft answer which your boughs 

 Utter in whispers to the babbling brook. 



Ye have no history. I cannot know 

 Who, when the hillside trees were hewn away, 

 Haply two centuries since, bade spare this oak, 

 Leaning to shade, with his irregular arms. 

 Low-bent and long, the fount that from his roots 

 Slips through a bed of cresses toward the bay 

 I know not who, but thank him that he left 

 The tree to flourish where the acorn fell, 

 And join these later days to that far time 

 While yet the Indian hunter drew the bow 



