„. . 
LAUREL. BAY. 
153 
THE BAY. 
E. COOK. 
Whom do we crown with the laurel-leaf? 
The hero-god, the soldier chief ; 
But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel, 
Of the flying shot and the reeking steel, 
Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes, 
Where clangor deafens and sulphur chokes ; 
Oh, who can love the laurel wreath, 
Plucked from the gory field of death ? 
* * * * * 
But there’s a green and fragrant leaf 
Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief ; 
’Tis the purest amaranth springing below. 
And rests on the calmest, noblest brow. 
It is not the right of the monarch or lord. 
Nor purchased by gold, nor won by the sword ; 
For the lowliest temples gather a ray 
Of quenchless light from the palm of bay. 
0 beautiful bay ! I worship thee— 
I homage thy wreath—I cherish thy tree ; 
And of all the chaplets Fame may deal, 
’Tis only to this one I would kneel. 
For as Indians fly to the banian branch 
When tempests lower and thunders launch, 
So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife, 
And seek from the bay-wreath joy and life. 
7* 
