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THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE.

By steeps where children gather
Flowers of the yet fresh year r?
By lonely walks where lovers stray
Till the tender stars appear?

Or haply dost thou linger

On barren plains and bare,

Or clamber the bald mountain side

Into the thinner air?

Where they who journey upward
Walk in a weary track,

And oft upon the shady vale

With longing eyes look back?

I hear a solemn murmur,

And, listening to the sound,
I know the voice of the mighty sea,
Beating his pebbly bound.

Dost thou, oh path of the woodland !
End where those waters roar,

Like human life, on a trackless beach,
With a boundless Sea before?

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THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE.

YOME, let us plant the apple tree.

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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-wind's 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 no on,
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 grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,
At the foot of the apple tree.

THE PLANTING 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 pass, 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,

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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 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."

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

ERRILY swinging on brier and weed,

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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,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,

Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,

Wearing a bright black wedding coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

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,

Broods 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!

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