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A song for the palm—the pine,
And for every tree that grows.
From the desolate zone of snows To the zone of the burning line; Hurrah! for the warders proud
Of the mountainside and the vale, That challenge the thundercloud
And buffet the stormy gale.
A song for the forest, aisled,
With its Gothic roof sublime,
The solemn temple of Time, Where man becometh a child, As he listens the anthem-roll
Of the voiceful winds that call, In the solitude of his soul.
On the name of the AU-in-All.
So long as the rivers flow,
So long as the mountains rise.
May the foliage drink of the skies And shelter the flowers below: Hurrah! for the beautiful trees!
Hurrah! for the forest grand. The pride of His centuries.
The Garden of God's own hand.
—W. H. Venable.
WOODMAN. SPARE THAT TREE.
Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me.
And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed It near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand—
Thy axe shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak.
Now towering to the skies!
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
And still thy brnnches bend.
And, woodman, leave the spot:
Thy axe shall harm it not!
—George P. Morbis.
LITTLE BY LITTLE.
"Little by little," an acorn said.
As it slowly sank in its mossy bed; "I am improving every day.
Hidden deep in the earth away."
Little by little each day it grew.
Little by little it sipped the dew;
Downward it sent out a thread-like root,
Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot.
Day after day, and year after year,
Little by little the leaves appear;
And the slender branches spread far and wide.
Till the mighty oak is the forest's pride. "Little by little," said a thoughtful boy, "Moment by moment I'll well employ.
Learning a little every day,
And not spending all my time In play;
And still this rule in my mind shall dwell— 'Whatever I do. I'll do it well.'
Little by little I'll learn to know
The treasured wisdom of long ago;
And one of these days, perhaps, we'll see
That the world will be the better for me."
And do you not think that this simple plan
Made him a wise and useful man?
"HELP ONE ANOTHER."
"Help one another." the snowflakes said,
"One of us here would not be felt.
"Help one another," the maple spray
Said to its fellow leaves one day; "The sun would wither me here alone.
Long enough ere the day Is gone;
But I'll help you and you help me.
And then what a splendid shade there'll be!"
"Help one another," the dewdrop cried,
Seeing another drop close to its side; "This warm south breeze would dry me away,
And I should be gone ere noon to-day;
But I'll help you, and you help me.
And we'll make a brook and run to the sea."
"Help one another." a grain of sand
Said to another grain just at hand; "The wind may carry me over the sea.
And then, O! what will become of me?
But come, my brother, give me your hand;
We'll build a mountain, and there we'll stand."
And so the snowflnkes grew to drifts,
The grains of sand to mountains.
And dewdrops fed the fountains.
—Rev. George F. Hunting, in the Parish Visitor.
WHEN ALL WILD THINGS LIE DOWN TO SLEEP.
November woods are bare and still,
I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell and soft to touch,
The forest sifts, and shapes, and spreads;
I never knew before how much
Of human sound there Is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweeps,
When all wild things "lie down to sleep."
Each day I find new coverlids
—Helen Hunt Jackson. NATURE'S SONG.
There Is no rhyme that is half so sweet
As the song of the wind In the rippling wheat;
There is no meter that's half so fine
As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine;
And the loveliest lyric I ever heard
Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.
A song to the oak.
The brave old oak,
Here's health and renown
To his broad, green crown And his fifty arms so strong!
There's fear in his frown
When the sun goes down
And he showeth his might,
On a wild, stormy night,
Then here's to the oak,
The brave old oak,
And still flourish he.
A hale, green tree.
—H. F. Choelev. PART VII. APPROPRIATE SONGS AND SELECTIONS.
MY COUNTRY, 'TIS OF THEE!
My country, 'tis of thee,
Of thee I sing.
Let freedom ring.
My native country, thee,
Thy name I love;
Like that above.
Let music swell the breeze
Sweet freedom's song;
The sound prolong.
Our father's God, to Thee,
To Thee we sing.
Great God, our King.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
And ev'ry loved spot which my infancy knew;
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
And e'en the rude buckot that hung in the well.