ARBOR DA V MANUAL. 
289 
VOICES OF THE FOREST. 
G UARDING 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, 
How like the ocean sinks, 
INow 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. 
D EEP 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 everywhere. 
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 blosom^, 
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. 
\ 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't will backward bring, 
And all the life before ’twill touch 
With Spring’s young glory, ’twill be 
much, 
How much 1 Yet such a little thing, 
The first arbutus of the Spring ! ” 
