THE ELM-TREES. I DO remember me, Of two old elm-trees shade, There, side by side they flourish'd, With intertwining crown, And through their broad embracing arms, A musing child alone, She scann'd my bosom's inmost thought, From her far, silver throne. I do remember me, Of all their wealth of leaves, When Summer, in her radiant loom, The burning solstice weaves, And how with firm endurance, I've roam'd through varied regions, And where the proud magnolia flaunts, And where the sparse, and stinted pine, Puts forth its sombre form, A vassal to the northern cloud, And to the tyrant storm, And where the pure, unruffled lakes, Or where the dread Niagara shakes, I've sought the temple's sculptur'd pile, The pencil's glorious art, Yet still, those old green Depictur'd on my heart. trees I wear, Years fled; my native vale I sought, But many a column of its trust, Lay broken in the grave, The ancient and the white-hair'd men, For them I ask'd, and echo's voice, I sought the thrifty matron, Strange faces from her window look'd, And 'neath the very vine she train❜d, I left a youthful mother, Her children round her knee, Those babes had risen into men, And coldly look'd on me, But she, with all her bloom and grace, Did in the church-yard lie, While still those changeless elms upbore, Their kingly canopy. Though we, who 'neath their lofty screen, Pursued our childish play, Now show amid our scatter'd locks, The sprinkled tints of gray, And though the village of our love, Must many a change betide, Long may those sacred elm-trees stand, THE LONGEST DAY. FROM us, if every fleeting hour, But since the longest day must end, Let wisdom's hand, and wisdom's voice, And when we rise, let morning's eye Convey the lesson sweet, Patient to render good to all, Within our bounded sphere, To raise the heart to Him who gives To let no fear disturb the breast, THE FRIENDS OF MAN. THE young babe sat on its mother's knee, Its little sister brought a flower, The boy came in from the wintry snow, A stranger came, and bending low, "What is that in your hand?" she said: Those pages have gold, and a way I'll find, For books have honey, the sages say, That is sweet to the soul, when the hair is grey." |