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, Of the voiceful winds that call, In the solitude of his soul, On the name of the All-in-All. So long as the rivers flow, So long as the mountains rise, And shelter the flowers below; 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! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown 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 branches bend. Thy axe shall harm it not! -GEORGE P. MORRIS. LITTLE BY LITTLE. "Little by little," an acorn said, Hidden deep in the earth away." 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 And do you not think that this simple plan "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; We'll build a mountain, and there we'll stand." And so the snowflakes grew to drifts, The grains of sand to mountains, The leaves became a pleasant shade, 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, Of human sound there is in such Low tones as through the forest sweeps, Each day I find new coverlids Tucked in and more sweet eyes shut tight; -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; As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine; Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird. -MADISON CAWEIN, THE OAK. A song to the oak, The brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long! To his broad, green crown When the sun goes down On a wild, stormy night, When the storms through his branches shout. The brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone; And still flourish he, A hale, green tree, When a hundred years are gone! -H. F. CHORLEY, PART VII. APPROPRIATE SONGS AND SELECTIONS. MY COUNTRY, 'TIS OF THEE! My country, 'tis of thee, Of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, My native country, thee, Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills; Let music swell the breeze Our father's God, to Thee, To Thee we sing. Long may our land be bright Protect us by Thy might, Great God, our King. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it, -SMITH. |