ARBOR DA Y KfANUAL. 



289 



VOICES OF THE FOREST. 



GUARDING the mountains around 

 Majestic the forests are standing, 

 Bright are their crested helms, 

 Dark is their armor of leaves ; 

 Filled with the breath of freedom 

 Each bosom subsiding, expanding, 

 Now like the ocean sinks, 

 Now like the ocean upheaves, 



Planted firm on the rock, 

 With foreheads stern and defiant, 

 Loud they shouted to the winds, 

 Loud to the tempest they call ; 

 Naught but Olympian thunders, 

 That blasted Titan and Giant, 

 Them can uproot and o'erthrow, 

 Shaking the earth with their fall. 

 LONGFELLOW'S The Masque of Pandora. 



WILD THORN BLOSSOMS. 



DEEP within the tangled wildwood, 

 Where the tuneful thrushes sing, 

 And the dreaming pine trees whisper 



In their sleep a tale of spring ; 

 Where the laughing brook goes leaping 



Down the mountain's mossy stair, 

 There the wild white thorn is flinging 

 Its sweet fragrance even-where. 



Rough and rugged are its branches, 



But its bloom is white as snow ; 

 And the roaming bees have found it, 



In their wanderings to and fro ; 

 And they gather from its sweetness 



Heavy freights the livelong day, 

 And go sailing homeward, singing 



Their thanksgivings all the way. 



All unheeded fall the blosoms, 



Like sweet snowflakes through the air, 

 And the summer marches onward 



With its fragrance rich and rare ; 

 But the grateful bee remembers, 



As he winds his mellow horn, 

 That the spring-time was made sweeter 



By the blossoms of the thorn. 



JULIAN S. CUTLER. 



ARBUTUS. 



' A RBUTUS, thou dost faintly swing 

 \ The subtle censer of the Spring. 

 I sip thy wine, I kiss thy lips, 

 I softly touch thy pinky tips, 

 More than I say thou art to me, 

 A past and still a joy to be ! 

 If e'er I stand of all bereft, 

 As they do stand whom Death has left, 

 A treasure dearer far than gold 

 Mine empty hands will seek and hold 

 19 



The first arbutus of the Spring, 

 A simple thing, a little thing, 

 Yet incense-bearer to the King, 

 His tidings glad borne on its wing. 

 All my lost life 'twill backward bring. 

 And all the life before 'twill touch 

 With Spring's young glory, 't will be 



much, 



How much ! Yet such a little thing, 

 The first arbutus of the Spring ! " 



