Arbor Day Leaves | Page 6

lofty vault to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplications. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which from the stilly twilight of the place And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this ancient wood, Offer one hymn, thrice happy if it find Acceptance in His ear.
--BRYANT.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
We can hardly see or think of trees without being reminded of Mr. Lowell, whose death during the last year was so great a loss. He was eminently a lover of trees, and they were the inspiration of some of his best prose and poetry. This love of trees led him to call his pleasant place of residence, in Cambridge, "Elmwood." In making up our selections for reading or recitation on Arbor Day, the writings of no one have been turned to more often, probably, than those of Mr. Lowell, and it will be very proper if we make this year's observance distinguished by the abundance of our extracts from his various works. We may well also plant memorial trees in honor of him. No one is more worthy of such honor, and we can hardly do any better thing than to plant trees which shall bear his name and remind us hereafter of his noble words and noble life. And no memorial of him would be more appropriate or more accordant with his own feelings than a growing tree. This is abundantly shown by the following letter, written only a few years ago, when it was proposed in one of our schools, to plant on Arbor Day, a tree in his memory.
"I can think of no more pleasant way of being remembered than by the planting of a tree. Like whatever things are perennially good, it will be growing while we are sleeping, and will survive us to make others happier. Birds will rest in it and fly thence with messages of good cheer. I should be glad to think that any word or deed of mine could be such a perennial presence of beauty, or show so benign a destiny."
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THE OAK.
What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his? There needs no crown to mark the forest's king; How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss! Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring, Which he, with such benignant royalty Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent; All nature seems his vassal proud to be, And cunning only for his ornament.
How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows, An unquelled exile from the summer's throne, Whose plain, uncintured front more kingly shows, Now that the obscuring courtier leaves are flown. His boughs make music of the winter air, Jewelled with sleet, like some cathedral front Where clinging snow-flakes with quaint art repair The dents and furrows of Time's envious brunt.
How doth his patient strength the rude March wind Persuade to seem glad breaths of summer breeze, And win the soil that fain would be unkind, To swell his revenues with proud increase! He is the gem; and all the landscape wide (So doth his grandeur isolate the sense) Seems but the setting, worthless all beside, An empty socket, were he fallen thence.
So, from oft converse with life's wintry gales, Should man learn how to clasp with tougher roots The inspiring earth;--how otherwise avails The leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots? So every year that falls with noiseless flake Should fill old scars up on the stormward side, And make hoar age revered for age's sake, Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride.
So, from the pinched soil of a churlish fate, True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth, So between earth and heaven stand simply great, That these shall seem but their attendants both; For nature's forces, with obedient zeal Wait on the rooted faith and oaken will, As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel, And turn mad Pucks to flout and mock him still.
Lord! all Thy works are lessons,--each contains Some emblem of man's all-containing soul; Shall he make fruitless all Thy glorious pains, Delving within Thy grace an eyeless mole? Make me the least of Thy Dodona-grove, Cause me some message of Thy truth to bring, Speak but a word through me, nor let Thy love Among my