ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
271 
Bared is your head to ward the lightning’s stroke ! 
You fed the infant man, and blessed his cot 
Hewed from your grain ; without you he were not; 
The hand that planned you planned the future too. 
Shall we distrust it, knowing such as you ? 
VI. 
And when comes Eden back ? The trees are here. 
In all their olden beauty and glad cheer. 
Eden but waits the lifting of the night, 
For man to know the true and will the right. 
Whatever creed may find in hate a birth, 
One of the heavens is this teeming earth ; 
'■ Of all its gifts but innocence restore, 
And Eden,” sigh the trees, ‘‘is at your door.” 
Joseph W. Miller. 
This poem was written expressly for Cincinnati “ Arbor Day,” 1882. 
THE RIVER’S SUPPLICATION. 
N OW saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams, 
In flaming summer pride, 
Dry-withering waste my foamy streams, 
And drink my crystal tide. 
Would then, my noble master please, 
To grant my highest wishes, 
He’ll shade my banks wi’tow’ring trees 
And bonnie spreading bushes. 
Let lofty firs and ashes cool. 
My lowly banks o’erspread, 
And view, deep bending in the pool, 
Their shadows’ wat'ry bed. 
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, 
My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster’s nest. 
The close embow’ring thorn. 
Burns. 
Where fall the tears of love the rose appears, 
And where the ground is bright with friendship’s tears, 
Forget-me-nots, and violets heavenly blue, 
Spring glittering with the cheerful drops like dew. 
Bryant. 
