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IS it the palm, the cocoa palm,

The Palm Tree.

On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm?
Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm?

A ship whose keel is of palm beneath,
Whose ribs of palm have a palm-bark sheath,
And a rudder of palm it steereth with.

Branches of palm are its spars and rails,
Fibres of palm are its woven sails,
And the rope is of palm that idly trails.
What does the good ship bear so well?
The cocoa-nut with its stony shell,
And the milky sap of its inner cell.

What are its jars, so smooth and fine,

But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine,
And the cabbage that ripens under the Line?

Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm?
The master, whose cunning and skill could charm
Cargo and ship from the bounteous palm.
In the cabin he sits on a palm-mat soft,
From a beaker of palm his drink is quaffed,

And a palm thatch shields from the sun aloft!

His dress is woven of palmy strands,
And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his hands,
Traced with the Prophet's wise commands!

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,
His need of the palm shall only cease
With the shroud wherein he lieth in peace.

"Allah il Allah!" he sings his psalm
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm;
"Thanks to Allah, who gives the palm!"
-John Greenleaf Whittier.

Thanatopsis.

To him, who, in the love of Nature, holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A various language: for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,
Go forth under the open sky and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice,—Yet a few days, and thee
The all beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

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;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone,-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,
The powerful of the earth,-the wise, the good,
Fair forms and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,

Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,
Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save its own dashings.-Yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep,-the dead reign there alone!
So shalt thou rest: and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure? The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men-

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off-
Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

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

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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.

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Then, afresh, for her dear brood,
Her harmonious shrieks renewed.
Now she winged it round and round,
Now she skimmed along the ground;
Now from bough to bough, in haste,
The delighted robber chased,

And, alighting in his path,

Seemed to say, 'twixt grief and wrath,
"Give me back, fierce rustic rude,
Give me back my pretty brood,"
And I heard the rustic still
Answer, "That I never will."

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To a Waterfowl.

While glow the heavens with the last steps
of day,

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-
The desert and illimitable air-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that the toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among my fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given;
And shall not soon depart:

He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

-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
Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy

nest;

And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide
The gentle bird who sings of pity best:
For still thy voice shall soft affections move,
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love!

-Charlotte Smith.

GEN

EMS of the changing autumn, how beautiful ye
are!

Shining from your glossy stems like many a golden star.
Peeping through the long grass, smiling on the down;

Lighting up the dusky bark, just where the sun goes
down;

Yellow flowers of autumn, how beautiful ye are!
Shining from your glossy stems like many a golden star.

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,
Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
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,

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:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

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
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care;
Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.

Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;
Off he flies and we sing as he goes:
Bob o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.

- 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.

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