ARBOR DA Y 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 
