Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree.

And time shall waste this apple-tree.
Oh, when its aged branches throw
Thin shadows on the ground below,
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still ?
What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this little apple-tree?

Who planted this old apple-tree?'
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,

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.

1

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

81

1864.

MERRILY Swinging on brier 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.

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.'

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 seeds 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,

50

The whirlwind, stand in her defence; 30 The blast as soon shall move the rock As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. And ye whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land, As mighty in your march as they; As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourne, With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn.

And ye who throng, beside the deep,
Her ports and hamlets of the strand,
In number like the waves that leap

On his long-murmuring marge of sand -
Come like that deep, when, o'er his brim,
He rises, all his floods to pour,
And flings the proudest barks that swim,
A helpless wreck, against the shore !

40

Alice. One of your old-world stories,
Uncle John,

Such as you tell us by the winter fire,
Till we all wonder it is grown so late.
Uncle John. The story of the witch that
ground to death

Two children in her mill, or will you have
The tale of Goody Cutpurse?

Alice.
Nay, now, nay;
Those stories are too childish, Uncle John,
Too childish even for little Willy here,
And I am older, two good years, than he;
No, let us have a tale of elves that ride, 10
By night, with jingling reins, or gnomes of
the mine,

Or water-fairies, such as you know how
To spin, till Willy's eyes forget to wink,
And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is,
Lays down her knitting.

So high, that, on its top, the winter snow
Was never melted, and the cottagers
Among the summer blossoms, far below,
Saw its white peaks in August from their
door.

One little maiden, in that cottage-home, Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb,

Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there,

Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean-waves,
And sometimes she forgot what she was bid,
As Alice does.

Alice.
Or Willy, quite as oft. 51
Uncle John. But you are older, Alice, two
good years,

And should be wiser. Eva was the name

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,

100

Go not upon the snow beyond the spot Where the great linden bounds the neighboring field.'

The little maiden promised, and went forth,

And climbed the rounded snow-swells firm

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