IS it the palm, the cocoa palm, The Palm Tree. On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm? A ship whose keel is of palm beneath, Branches of palm are its spars and rails, What are its jars, so smooth and fine, But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine, Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm? And a palm thatch shields from the sun aloft! His dress is woven of palmy strands, The turban folded about his head Was daintily wrought of the palm-leaf braid, And the fan that cools him, of palm was made. Of threads of palm was the carpet spun Whereon he kneels when the day is done, And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as one! To him the palm is a gift divine, Wherein all uses of man combine,— House and raiment and food and wine! And, in the hour of his great release, "Allah il Allah!" he sings his psalm Thanatopsis. To him, who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language: for his gayer hours Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; Shalt thou retire alone,-nor couldst thou wish Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun, Take note of thy departure? The gay will laugh The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, They go not like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust; approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him and lies down to pleasant dreams. -William Cullen Bryant. THE The Death of the Flowers. HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winas, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the wild rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow: But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home! When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still: And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. Then, afresh, for her dear brood, And, alighting in his path, Seemed to say, 'twixt grief and wrath, To a Waterfowl. While glow the heavens with the last steps Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast- Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, And soon that the toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart He who, from zone to zone, -William Cullen Bryant. On the Departure of the Nightingale. WEET poet of the woods, a long adieu! Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide nest; And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide -Charlotte Smith. GEN EMS of the changing autumn, how beautiful ye Shining from your glossy stems like many a golden star. Lighting up the dusky bark, just where the sun goes Yellow flowers of autumn, how beautiful ye are! M' Robert of Lincoln. ERRILY swinging on briar and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine! Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Proods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about." Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Robert of Lincoln at length is made Half forgotten that merry air: Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes; the children are grown; Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, - William Cullen Bryant. The Sunflower. H, sunflower! weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime, Where the traveler's journey is done; Where the youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from the grave and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go. -William Blake. |