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Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gus.h.i.+ng joy Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand-- Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand!
My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not.
George Pope Morris [1802-1864]
THE BEECH TREE'S PEt.i.tION
O leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made, And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground; By all that Love has whispered here, Or Beauty heard with ravished ear; As Love's own altar honor me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]
THE POPLAR FIELD
The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade; And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view Of my favorite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the gra.s.s behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the scene where his melody charmed me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, To muse on the peris.h.i.+ng pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a being less durable even than he.
William Cowper [1731-1800]
THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE
Come, let us plant the apple-tree.
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infant's feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet; So plant we the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-winds restless wings, When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant gra.s.s Betrays their bed to those who pa.s.s, At the foot of the apple-tree.
And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple-tree.
The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree.
Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.
The years shall come and pa.s.s, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree.
And time shall waste this apple-tree.
Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still?
What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this little apple-tree?
"Who planted this old apple-tree?"
The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: "A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes, On planting the apple-tree."
William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]
OF AN ORCHARD
Good is an Orchard, the Saint saith, To meditate on life and death, With a cool well, a hive of bees, A hermit's grot below the trees.
Good is an Orchard: very good, Though one should wear no monkish hood.
Right good, when Spring awakes her flute, And good in yellowing time of fruit.
Very good in the gra.s.s to lie And see the network 'gainst the sky, A living lace of blue and green, And boughs that let the gold between.
The bees are types of souls that dwell With honey in a quiet cell; The ripe fruit figures goldenly The soul's perfection in G.o.d's eye.
Prayer and praise in a country home, Honey and fruit: a man might come, Fed on such meats, to walk abroad, And in his Orchard talk with G.o.d.
Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]
AN ORCHARD AT AVIGNON
