As, round the sleeping infant's feet, 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; What plant we in this apple-tree? What plant we in this apple-tree ? 20 36 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. 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. 41 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; 50 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 And time shall waste this apple-tree. Oppress the weak and helpless still? 61 70 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.'1 1849. ROBERT OF LINCOLN 81 1864. MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed, Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 1 Compare a letter of Bryant's written November 17, 1846 (Godwin's Life of Bryant, vol. ii, pp. 27, 28): I have been, and am, at my place on Long Island, planting and transplanting trees, in the mist; sixty or seventy; some for shade; most for fruit. Hereafter, men, whose existence is at present merely possible, will gather pears from the trees which I have set in the ground, and wonder what old covey-for in those days the slang terms of the present time, by the ordinary process of change in languages, will have become classical-what old covey of past ages planted them? Or they will walk in the shade of the mulberry, apricot, and cherry trees that I have set in a row beside a green lane, and think, if they think at all about the matter -for who can tell what the great-grandchildren of ours will think about that they sprang up of themselves by the way.' Alice. One of your old-world stories, Such as you tell us by the winter fire, Uncle John. The story of the witch that Alice. Or water-fairies, such as you know how Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks, And moulding little snow-balls in their palms, And rolling them, to crush her flowers below, Down the steep snow-fields. Alice. 88 That, too, must have been A merry sight to look at. Uncle John. You are right, But I must speak of graver matters now. Midwinter was the time, and Eva stood, Within the cottage, all prepared to dare The outer cold, with ample furry robe Close-belted round her waist, and boots of fur, And a broad kerchief, which her mother's hand Had closely drawn about her ruddy cheek. Now, stay not long abroad,' said the good dame, 'For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well, Her promise, and went on with her new friend, Over the glistening snow and down a bank Where a white shelf, wrought by the eddy ing wind, 140 Like to a billow's crest in the great sea, Curtained an opening. 'Look, we enter here.' And straight, beneath the fair o'erhanging fold, Entered the little pair that hill of snow, Walking along a passage with white walls, And a white vault above where snow-stars shed A wintry twilight. Eva moved in awe, And held her peace, but the snow-maiden smiled, And talked and tripped along, as down the way, Deeper they went into that mountainous drift. 150 And now the white walls widened, and the vault Swelled upward, like some vast cathedraldome, Such as the Florentine, who bore the name |